THE  LIBRARY 


OF 


THE 


OF 


LOS 


UNIVERSITY 
CALIFORNIA 
ANGELES 


\ 


i 


//u,.  J'tr>  <y, 


Rosemary   Leaves 


BY 


MRS.  D.  M.  JORDAN 


There  '*  Rosemary;  thafs  for  remembrance  y— Shakespeare 


CINCINNATI 
ROBERT  CLARKE   &   COMPANY 

1873 


>  PS 

!  it5*- 

CT7Uv 


AFFECTIONATELY  DEDICATED 

TO 

MY    MOTHER 

AND 

SISTERS. 


759376 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2006 


http://www.archive.org/details/rosemaryleavesOOjordiala 


CONTENTS 


Preface 5 

To  Poesy 7 

A  Winter  Vision 10 

In  March 12 

April 14 

The  Song  that  the  Robin  Sings 16 

"  Dolce  far  Niente"? 18 

Noonday  in  August 21 

September 24 

October 26 

November 28 

The  Year 30 

"  The  Song  of  Seven  " 32 

Living  Martyrs 36 

4 '  Day  unto  Day  " 38 

Life 40 

Out  of  the  Depths 42 

The  Days  that  are  Dead 44 

The  Sweetest  Hour 46 

The  Window  over  the  Way 48 

My  Missing  Ships 50 

"  Little  Boy  Blue  " 52 

Spring  Grove 54 

At  Rest 56 

Lament  for  Alice  Carey 59 


IV  CONTENTS. 

Released 61 

Nettie 63 

Never  Again 65 

The  Vesper  Bell 67 

Unreturning 69 

Mother  Goose 70 

A  Summer  Storm 72 

Drifting  with  the  Tide 74 

"The  Way  of  the  World  " 76 

Under  the  Autumn  Rain 78 

Sorrow  Crowned 80 

Only 82 

Tears 83 

A  June  Idyl 84 

A  Day  in  the  Woods 86 

A  Summer  Night 88 

Home  to  the  Village 90 

A  Song  of  Vanished  Years 93 

To  Irene 96 

Recompense 98 

"Trusting  in  Thee  " 100 

Rosemary 101 

The  Forgotten  Song 103 

Old  Letters 105 

Life's  Autumn 107 

One  Day  in  May 109 

A  Year  and  a  Day 111 

"  Under  the  Mistletoe  " * 113 

The  Letter 115 

Decoration  Ode 117 


CONTENTS  V 

The  Lost  Ship 1 19 

Pansies 121 

"  The  Beautiful  Snow  " 123 

A  Lost  Day 124 

Dear  Eves 126 

Under  the  Elm 127 

Soldiers'  Graves 129 

Faded  Flowers 133 

Captain  Joe 135 

To  One  Afar 137 

Mystery .' 139 

What  the  Daisy  Told  Me 141 

The  Valedictory '. 143 

A  Sad  Story 146 

"Ujiji" 148 

The  Tyler  Davidson  Fountain 150 

Saddest  Words 155 

Good-Bye 157 


PREFACE. 


I  'HAVE  culled  from  the  garden  of  fancy 
The  greenest  of  all  her  leaves, 
And  bound  them  together  in  gladness 

As  the  harvester  garners  his  sheaves  ; 
And  out  of  the  waning  autumn, 

When  dead  leaves  rustle  down, 

I  bring  my  leaves  of  remembrance, 

The  brow  that  I  love,  to  crown. 

Rosemary,  sweet  and  bitter, 

Gathered  with  tenderest  care  ; 
Twined  with  an  earnest  purpose 

And  bound  with  a  thread  of  prayer : 
Fragrant  with  sweetest  meaning 

To  hearts  that  love  me  well ; 
Only  leaves  that  will  perish 

Where  Friendship  owns  no  spell. 

You  who  have  pressed  sweet  roses 
In  the  leaves  of  some  volume  dear — 

Keeping  the  fragrance  of  summer 
Thro'  all  the  days  of  the  year — 


PREFACE. 


Take  from  my  garland  of  fancy 
One  leaf  to  wear  in  your  heart, 

To  hold  me  in  fond  remembrance, 
From  the  other  leaves  apart. 


TO  POESY. 

WITH  reverent  steps  I  come,  and  low-bowed  head, 
To  the  charmed  presence  of  my  bright  ideal, 
Who  sits  enthroned  in  the  sweet  realm  of  song — 

A  queen  of  fancy,  beautiful  and  real 
As  ever  yet  inspired  the  tuneful  lays 
Of  wandering  minstrel  in  the  courtly  days. 

Not  to  the  Poet  knights — who  sweetly  sing 

In  palaces  to  kingly  court  and  throng, 
Bearing  brave  honors  on  their  manly  breasts 

And  wearing  laurel  crowns — do  I  belong  ; 
But  rather  would  I  sing  a  simple  strain, 
To  win  some  mourner  from  his  dream  of  pain. 

Not  on  the  height  of  the  fair  mount  of  song, 

Where  full-voiced  singers  chant  in  rhythmic  strains 

The  songs  that  echo  in  the  world's  great  throng, 
Winning  the  meed  of  praise  and  golden  gains, 

But  in  the  valley,  where  the  daisies  grow, 

I  sing  such  songs  as  untaught  ears  may  know. 


5  TO    POESY. 

Songs  of  the  summer  days,  when  full  and  clear, 
The  robin's  note  sets  all  the  world  in  tune ; 

When  yellow  fields  bow  to  the  reaper's  tread, 
And  bees  go  singing  'mid  the  flowers  of  June, 

And  wings,  as  free  as  thought,  are  cleaving  thro' 

The  upper  ocean's  depths  of  softest  blue  ; 

And  dreamy  days,  when  summer  leaves  are  dead, 
And  failing  streams  sing  thro'  the  meadows  brown  ; 

When  dim  woods  hold  a  whisper  of  the  past, 
And  ripened  fruits  are  softly  dropping  down, 

And  the  tired  earth,  released  from  summer's  care, 

Sits  sunning  in  the  glowing  autumn  air  ; 

Of  flowers  that  grow  unnamed  in  shady  spots, 
And  reeds  that  dally  with  the  rippling  stream  ; 

Where  cool  green  mosses  hide  the  wasting  tree 
From  the  full  glory  of  the  noontide  beam, 

And  silence,  like  a  presence,  thrills  the  air 

Like  the  sweet  rapture  of  unuttered  prayer. 

No  voice  have  I  for  thrilling  clarion  strains, 
And  trumpet's  tones  to  call  the  world  to  arms, 

To  battle  for  great  deeds  of  sounding  fame 
Beyond  the  peaceful  valley's  quiet  charms ; 

But  where  the  dim  aisles  of  the  forest  lead 

To  nature's  shrines,  I  tune  my  humble  reed. 


TO    POESV. 

Sweet  poesy  !  thy  realm  of  heavenly  song 

I  enter  with  a  sense  akin  to  dread, 
Lest  I  should  fail  to  utter  what  I  feel, 

And  wound  the  darling  of  my  heart,  instead 
Of  crowning  her  with  simple  wild-wood  flowers, 
Breathing  the  sweetness  of  the  summer  hours. 

And  yet,  the  heart's  great  mysteries  divine 

Are  oft'nest  whispered  low  by  faltering  tongue  ; 

The  great  earth  yieldeth  up  her  harvest  wealth 
As  silently  as  summer  winds  are  flung 

From  clouds  that  sweep  above  the  sleeping  earth, 

Dropping  the  seeds  for  some  new  summer's  birth. 

So,  if  I  lead  some  weary  dust-stained  feet 

To  pleasant  fields,  and  forests  cool  and  green, 

Where  God's  sweet  peace  rests  like  a  benison 
The  noisy  marts  of  busy  worlds  between, 

My  low-voiced  song  shall  not  have  been  in  vain  : 

I  shall  have  won  some  heart  away  from  pain. 

And  if  some  heart,  made  happier  by  my  song, 
Take  up  its  burden  with  a  better  grace, 

Where  worthier  songs  have  failed  to  lift  it  up 
From  the  deep  mists  to  nature's  glorious  face — 

If  I  may  lead  it  to  a  heavenward  view, 

Sweet  poesy  !  to  me,  thou  art  divinely  true. 


A  WINTER  VISION. 

TO-DAY,  in  thoughtful  mood,  I  walked 
Within  the  forest  dull  and  brown, 
Whose  leafless  trees  like  sentries  stand 

Beyond  the  borders  of  the  town. 
No  sound  of  life  was  in  the  air — 

The  grave  is  not  more  cold  and  still — 
No  rustle  of  sweet  summer  leaves, 
Nor  any  song  of  bird  or  rill. 

Only  dumb  silence  over  all 

Kept  watch  and  ward,  with  soundless  tread, 
Waiting  for  folded  buds  to  break 

In  resurrection  from  the  dead. 
Whence  came  the  presence,  all  unseen  ; 

The  flood  of  memories,  sad  and  sweet ; 
Or  fancied  scent  of  violets  blue, 

When  none  were  blooming  near  my  feet? 

How  shall  I  know  what  hidden  cord 
By  some  mysterious  hand  was  swept, 

To  stir  my  inmost  being  through 

With  memories  which  so  long  had  slept — 


A    WINTER    VISION. 

With  memories  which  I  thought  were  dead, 
And  buried  beyond  reach  of  pain  ; 

And  grief,  whose  bitterness  once  drained, 
I  never  thought  to  taste  again. 

Grief  never  dies,  but  grows  a  part 

Of  the  strong  soul  from  day  to  day. 
At  first  by  outward  signs  'tis  moved, 

But  slow  and  sure  it  learns  the  way, 
And  surely  learns  how  weak  and  slight 

Are  outward  holds,  and  how  alone, 
Aye,  even  from  the  help  of  heaven, 

Its  bitterness  is  all  its  own. 


IN  MARCH. 

I    HAVE  been  looking  forth  thro'  tears  to  day, 
Into  brown  sodden  fields,  and  forests  bare, 
And  murmuring  that  the  fickle  spring  is  late, 
And  that  the  meadows  are  not  green  and  fair. 

I  have  been  looking  back  through  open  doors 
That  led  me  out  to  memory's  haunted  dell, 

Where,  from  the  silence  of  these  lonesome  days, 
I  find  a  happiness  too  sweet  to  tell. 

In  the  brown  earth  I  see  some  spikes  of  green, 
And  yet  the  hollows  are  all  filled  with  snow. 

The  crocus  looks  upon  a  frozen  world  ; 

I  know  not  how  the  dainty  thing  can  grow. 

Chill,  homeless  birds  await  the  sunny  days 
In  frozen  fields  and  in  the  leafless  trees  ; 

And  shall  I  murmur  that  my  spring-time  waits, 
When  He  will  care  for  even  such  as  these  ? 

Yet  I  am  restless  for  the  May  blue  sky, 
The  apple  blossoms  and  the  song  of  birds, 

The  sweet,  wild  beauty  of  the  rustling  woods, 
The  tinkling  bell  among  the  happy  herds. 


IN    MARCH.  13 

Eager  for  running  brooks,  so  free  and  wild — 
Longing  to  climb  the  breezy,  sunny  hill, 

And  follow  on  to  where  the  sunset  skies 
Shut  in  the  night  so  beautiful  and  still. 

Tired,  oh  so  tired  of  cold,  gray,  sunless  days, 
Across  whose  nights  I  see  the  summer's  glow — 

Beloved  pictures,  warm  with  happy  life, 
Beyond  the  ghostly  regions  of  the  snow. 


APRIL. 

THE  tearful  sky  wept  all  day  long 
In  token  of  the  April  weather, 
And  something  in  my  heart  o'erflowed — 

The  clouds  and  I  were  sad  together. 
But  when  the  day  was  near  its  close, 
The  sun  set  all  the  earth  a-shining, 
And  in  my  heart  the  heavy  cloud 
Unfolded  all  its  silver  lining. 

The  rain  had  brightened  all  the  slopes, 

Where  tender  leaves  of  green  were  springing, 
And  from  each  jewel-spangled  bough 

The  happy  troops  of  birds  were  singing ; 
And  arching  o'er  the  shining  earth, 

The  radiant  bow  unveiled  its  glory, 
Repeating  to  the  world  below, 

The  promise,  and  the  wondrous  story. 

The  day  that  wept  in  rain  and  tears, 
Went  smiling  thro'  the  gate  of  even, 

And  on  the  bridge  that  spanned  the  sky 
My  heart  went  to  the  door  of  heaven — 


i5 


Went  up  in  songs  of  happy  praise, 
For  all  the  beauty  and  the  sweetness 

That  crowned  the  changeful  April  day, 

And  filled  my  soul  with  such  completeness. 


THE  SONG  THAT  THE  ROBIN  SINGS. 

UNDER  my  window  a  robin  is  singing, 
Swayed  by  the  tremulous  breath  of  the  wind, 
Rocked  to  and  fro  'mid  the  emerald  branches, 
Free,  with  a  freedom  my  soul  can  not  find. 
What  can  it  be  in  the  robin's  low  trilling 

That  touches  my  heart  with  a  vague  unrest, 
Waking  the  echoes  in  memory's  chamber 

Of  a  beautiful  dream  that  was  ne'er  confessed? 

Many  a  May-time  has  blossomed  and  faded — 

Oft  have  the  robins  come  and  flown — 
Since  in  my  bosom  the  melody  wakened 

That  thrilled  just  now  at  the  wild  bird's  tone. 
Many  a  brilliant  and  airy  castle 

Has  faded  out,  like  the  stars  at  dawn, 
And  the  master  hand  of  my  heart's  sweet  music 

A  wanderer  over  the  earth  has  gone. 

And  yet  when  the  May  comes  round  in  beauty, 
And  the  hedges  are  touched  with  tender  green — 

When  the  robin  tells  the  same  sweet  story 
She  told  when  my  years  were  but  sixteen, 


THE    SONG    THAT    THE    ROBIN    SINGS.  1 7 

I  am  filled  with  a  sad  and  restless  feeling, 

A  wandering  into  the  silent  past — 
A  wondering  why  the  glad  May-season 

Of  life  and  love  should  so  soon  be  past. 

And  though  I  am  only  an  idle  dreamer, 

I  know  that  life  hath  a  noble  goal ; 
As  a  vesture,  folded  away  in  darkness, 

We  may  not  bury  the  human  soul — 
Wonderful  soul,  with  a  life  eternal, 

Full  of  bright  and  beautiful  things, 
Why  art  thou  thrilled  to  the  inmost  center 

By  the  simple  song  that  the  robin  sings? 


«  DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE." 

T\  TY  thoughts  are  on  the  wing  to-day, 
■*-"-*■   Nor  would  I  stay  them  if  I  might ; 
For  many  an  olive  branch  of  hope, 

They  've  gathered  in  their  restless  flight. 
The  harvest-fields  are  thick  with  grain, 

Swift  ripening  'neath  the  skies  of  June, 
And  o'er  the  scented  clover-field 

The.  wild  bee  hums  a  happy  tune. 

Along  the  crumbling  garden-wall 

The  crimson  roses  nod  in  glee, 
And  robin'song  and  bluebird  note 

Mingle  in  sweetest  harmony. 
Across  the  fields  of  waving  grain, 

The  billowy  ripples  ebb  and  flow 
Like  waves  upon  a  summer  sea 

Swept  lightly  by  the  winds  that  blow. 

My  feet  have  wandered  far  to-day 
Away  from  busy  haunts  of  life, 

With  soul  attuned  to  nature's  voice, 
Forgetting  all  the  din  and  strife  ; 


"DOLCE    FAR    NIENTE.  IO, 

And  in  this  charmed  and  sweet  repose 

O'ercanopied  by  forest  trees, 
Whose  loving  arms  are  interlaced 

In  playful  dalliance  with  the  breeze, 

I  've  watched  the  slowly  gliding  stream, 

And  listened  to  the  ripple's  flow. 
The  while  I  heard,  unconsciously, 

Sweet  echoes  from  the  long  ago, 
So  softly  set  to  happy  chords, 

That  sing  themselves  in  tender  tune 
A  melody  of  thankfulness 

For  all  the  sweetness  of  the  June. 

The  shadows  lengthen  while  I  gaze, 

The  gold  is  fading  from  the  sky, 
And  sailing  low  on  weary  wing 

The  wandering  swallows  homeward  fly. 
The  tinkle  of  a  far-off  bell 

Comes  faintly  on  the  evening  air, 
And  o'er  the  unfledged  nest  I  hear 

The  mother  bird  at  vesper  prayer. 

A  purple  mist  creeps  up  the  sky 

Where  late  the  clouds  we*e  flaming  gold. 

And  fainter  sounds  the  robin's  trill 
Above  the  brood  her  wings  enfold. 


20  kk  DOLCE    FAR    NIENTE. 


With  lingering  feet  I  quit  the  spot, 
Still  looking  back  with  many  a  sigh. 

Sweet  dream,  with  happy  memories  fraught, 
Sweet  summer-day  of  June,  good-bye  ! 


NOONDAY  IN  AUGUST. 

A   SLOPING  hill,  a  shaded  bank, 
A  sun  midway  upon  the  sky ; 
A  lazy  stream,  where  cattle  drink, 

Or  in  the  cooling  shadows  lie  ; 
A  dusty  highway  gleaming  white, 

Bordered  by  untrimmed  hedges  green  ; 
A  hum  of  happy  insect  life, 

And  fluttering  wings  of  golden  sheen  ; 

And  on  the  sky  the  white  clouds  lie 

Like  ships  becalmed  in  tropic  seas, 
With  motionless  and  idle  sail, 

Unstirred  by  any  passing  breeze. 
A  hush  is  on  the  busy  town, 

And  passing  feet  make  echoes  loud 
Upon  the  foot-worn  pavement,  where 

At  morning  went  the  hurrying  crowd. 

The  leaves  hang  limp  upon  the  vine, 

The  flowers  have  closed  their  fragrant  cells, 

The  murmuring  bee  on  droning  wing 
No  longer  seeks  the  honeyed  wells  : 


22  NOONDAY    IN    AUGUST. 

The  river  scarcely  seems  to  glide — 

So  placid  is  the  glassy  stream, 
Reflecting  in  its  crystal  deeps 

The  glory  of  the  noonday  beam. 

Beneath  the  elm  tree's  cooling  shade, 

The  reaper  seeks  his  noontide  rest, 
Lulled  sweetly  by  the  twittering  song 

Of  birds  above  the  unfledged  nest ; 
And  here  beneath  this  spreading  beech, 

My  book  lies  open  and  unread— 
My  soul  is  in  the  lotus  land, 

My  senses  on  its  blossoms  fed. 

I  see  the  world  through  drowsy  eyes, 

And  hear  its  noises  faint  and  far ; 
My  happy  heart  has  flown  away, 

And  sails  through  space  like  some  glad  star, 
I  link  the  present  with  the  past 

So  closely,  that  I  almost  seem 
To  live  again  the  vanished  hours, 

As  one  may  live  them  in  a  dream. 

Sweet  spirits  from  the  shadowy  land 
Have  set  their  seal  upon  my  eyes, 

And  on  my  inner  ear  there  falls 
A  music  from  the  upper  skies. 


NOONDAY    IN    AUGUST.  23 

No  sound  to  mar  the  sweet  repose, 

No  sight  to  break  my  happy  rest, 
In  perfect  peacefulness  I  lie — 

A  child,  upon  a  mother's  breast. 


SEPTEMBER. 

OMOON  of  golden  fruit  and  garnered  grain — 
Of  skies  and  peaks  that  melt  in  mist  together, 
And  streams  that  sing  in  murmurs  soft  and  low — 

A  tender  requiem  for  the  summer  weather  ! 
Where  late  the  winds  went  plowing  through  the  field, 

Breaking  the  grain  apart  in  shining  furrows. 
The  brown  quail  pipes  his  cheer}-  note  of  song. 
And  the  sleek  mole  beneath  the  stubble  burrows. 

The  hush  of  slumber  rests  upon  the  earth  ; 

The  clouds  are  still,  as  if  in  silent  blessing : 
And  the  soft  winds  that  sweep  the  fading  field 

Have  in  their  whispers  something  of  caressing. 
Along  the  borders  of  the  dust)7  road 

The  silvery  thistledown  is  lightly  drifting  ; 
And  changeful  colors  sweep  the  landscape  o'er, 

Like  magic  pictures  on  the  canvass  shifting. 

The  bee  sings  low  amid  the  scented  grass, 

And  golden  sunflowers  watch  the  sun's  slow  turning ; 

The  grapes  are  purpling  on  the  clustering  vine 

Quick  with  the  prisoned  wine  within  them  burning  ; 


SEPTEMBER.  2$ 

The  lark  calls  sweetly  from  the  far-off  hills, 

And  the  slow  hawk  sails  by  with  dreamy  motion  ; 

The  sun  rides  thro'  the  depth  of  softest  blue, — 
A  blazing  ship  upon  a  fropic  ocean. 

Sweet  golden  days  that  wait  the  summer's  death, 

Like  tender  watchers  o'er  a  loved  one's  slumber, 
Ye  stand  between  the  lost  one  and  the  grave, 

With  consolations  that  our  griefs  outnumber, — 
The  song  of  swallows  twittering  from  the  eaves, 

Of  new-fledged  birds  that  plume  their  wings  for  flying, 
And  forests  robed  in  gold  and  purple  state, 

Like  some  grand  king  who  waits  the  hour  for  dying. 

We  welcomed  May  with  all  her  changing  skies, 

And  hailed  with  joy  the  queenly  month  of  flowers ; 
Counting  some  blessing  in  each  fleeting  day, 

Telling  them  on  a  rosary  of  hours. 
Some  idle  tears  must  fall  above  the  past, 

For  all  the  sweet  dead  days  that  we  remember  ; 
But  with  the  garnered  treasures  in  our  grasp, 

We  drink  the  golden  wine  of  bright  September. 


T 


OCTOBER. 

HE  light  that  dyes 
October's  skies 
Gleams  opaline  and  many  hued, 

Like, rays  that  drop  from  Paradise 
By  earthly  mists  and  clouds  subdued. 

The  sunset  glow 
In  crimson  flow 
Turns  lake  and  river  into  blood, 

While  far  and  near,  all  things  appear 
Transfigured  with  a  golden  flood. 

On  level  wing 
The  swallows  swing 
Above  the  meadows  dull  and  brown. 

While  all  the  air  in  silent  prayer 
Drops  from  the  sky  a  blessing  down. 

The  orchards  flush 
In  deepest  blush, 
And  scatter  largess  rich  and  free. 

While  from  each  limb  goes  up  a  hymn 
Of  praise  for  the  full-fruited  free. 


OCTOBER.  2J 

The  forest  bright 
Gleams  with  a  light 
Of  gold  and  royal  tyrian  hue. 

While  through  the  sky  the  clouds  sail  by 
Like  white  ships  on  a  sea  of  blue. 

I  know  not  why 
Beneath  this  sky 
Come  shadows  of  a  vain  regret, 

Nor  why  a  tear  should  tremble  here 
For  what  't  were  better  to  forget. 


NOVEMBER. 

T  T  7 HAT  are  the  wild  winds  saying, 

™  *         As  they  sweep  thro'  the  stormy  sky, 
Or  moan  'mid  the  leafless  branches, 

With  a  soifnd  like  a  human  sigh  ? 
They  are  telling  in  mournful  whispers 

Of  the  beautiful  summer  dead, 
Of  May  and  her  faded  garlands, 

Of  June  and  her  roses  fled  ; 

Of  the  shining  days  of  August, 

And  the  sweet  September  glow, 
Of  the  regally  crowned  October 

With  footsteps  silent  and  slow. 
They  are  telling  of  harvests  garnered. 

Of  ripened  and  gathered  sheaves, 
Of  empty  nests  in  the  forests 

And  under  the  homestead  eaves  ; 

They  are  telling  of  stranded  vessels, 
And  wrecks  upon  stormy  waves, 

Of  signal  guns  on  a  midnight  sea, 
Of  cruel  and  watery  graves  ; 


NOVEMBER.  29 

And  of  leaves  that  drift  in  the  valleys, 

And  mounds  where  no  grass  has  grown, 
Of  beautiful  idyls  vanished, 

And  beautiful  visions  flown. 
Of  a  year  with  its  joys  and  sorrows 

That  Time,  like  a  sheaf  hath  bound, 
Leaving  no  fruit  for  the  gleaner 

On  all  the  desolate  ground. 

Oh,  wind  of  the  wild  November, 

A  sorrowful  voice  is  thine — 
A  requiem  over  the  dying  year, 

Of  the  snowy  shroud  a  sign  ; 
And  harvest  days  that  are  over, 

When  we  gathered  no  golden  grain, 
And  links  that  are  broken  forever 

And  lost  from  love's  magical  chain. 


THE  YEAR. 

A    S  some  tired  laborer  at  the  close  of  day 
■*■  -*-      Watches  the  light  grow  gorgeous  at.  it  wanes, 
And  sees  as  in  a  dream  the  sunset  gold 

Gild  the  far  steeples  and  the  western  panes. 
So  sits  the  year,  wrapped  in  the  purple  haze 

And  mellow  radiance  of  autumnal  dyes, 
Resting  amid  the  trophies  of  the  field 

That  ripened  under  all  her  summer  skies : 

Breathing  the  air  from  golden-fruited  trees, 

Elate  with  odors  from  the  clustering  vine 
Whose  purple  fruit  drank  in  the  summer's  glow, 

To  quicken  into  life  the  imprisoned  wine. 
Rich  are  the  hues  the  fading  year  puts  on. 

Her  tyrian  mantle  and  embroidered  vest, 
Her  trailing  robe  fringed  with  the  autumn  flowers, 

And  turban  with  its  gorgeous  colors  dressed. 

Across  the  dull  brown  field  with  stately  tread 
She  walks  among  the  dry  and  withered  leaves, 

Where  late  the  scarlet  pink  flamed  thro'  the  grass, 
Or  where  the  reapers  bound  the  golden  sheaves. 


THE    YEAR.  3  I 

Pausing  and  looking  back  with  many  a  smile 
Of  summer  radiance,  all  too  bright  to  last, 

She  goes  her  way  across  the  wintry  hills, 

And  sends  her  farewell  on  December's  blast. 

Ah  !  well  for  us  who  hear  the  sad  good-bye 

Each  year  with  something  less  of  tender  sorrow, 
Who  count  one  weary  march  toward  the  day 

Whose  perfect  light  shall  have  no  night  nor  morrow  ; 
Who  see  with  undimned  sight  and  cloudless  faith, 

The  shining  Zoar  that  waits  our  pilgrim  feet, 
Beyond  the  vanishing  and  changing  years, 

Where  time  with  vast  eternity  shall  meet. 


"THE  SONG  OF  SEVEN." 

POET,  sing  me  a  simple  rhyme, 
A  tale  that  is  true  and  not  a  dream  : 
You  may  sing  of  the  earthly  life  of  man  — 

Could  poet  ask  for  a  nobler  theme  ? 
And  I  said,  Shall  I  sing  the  "  Song  of  Seven," 
And  its  wonderful  steps  from  earth  to  heaven — 
Shall  I  tell  how  the  mortal  finds  its  way 
Out  of  the  darkness  into  the  day, 
Out  of  the  shadows  into  the  light, 
Out  of  the  finite  to  infinite  ? 

Have  you  ever  thought  of  the  swaddling  bands   - 
The  tender  and  helpless  baby  hands  ? 
Have  you  ever  seen  the  round  blank  eyes, 
Sans  speculation  and  sans  surprise, 
Of  the  baby  who  squares  his  fists  at  time 
For  coming  upon  him  before  his  prime? 
Have  you  ever  seen  the  little  feet, 
With  the  toes  like  rosebuds,  pink  and  sweet? 
Have  you  thought  of  the  journey  that  lies  before, 
Which  those  little  feet  must  travel  o'er? 


"  THE    SONG    OF    SEVEN.  33 

Have  you  measured  the  mountains  that  must  be  passed, 
From  the  first  footstep  to  the  weary  last, 
Of  the  stages  that  lead  through  earth  to  heaven : 
This  is  the  first  one  of  the  seven. 

The  second  step  in  his  upward  climb, 

The  second  round  in  the  ladder  of  time, 

He  takes,  when  armed  with  satchel  and  rule, 

And  resolute  steps,  he  starts  to  school ; 

When  he  grasps  the  puzzle  of  "A,  B,  C," 

And  fights  with  the  giant  "  rule  of  three  ;" 

When  he  flounders  on  through  "shillings  and  pence," 

Feeling  his  way  through  the  dim  immense  ; 

Learning  each  day  some  wonderful  truth. 

He  passes  from  boyhood  into  youth. 

Youth,  with  its  glorious  hopes  and  dreams, 
Its  airy  castle  of  golden  gleams, 
Its  bright  ambitions,  undimmed,  unfaded, 
Its  love  and  trust,  by  doubt  unshaded, 
Its  sighing  and  singing  of  tender  strains, 
Under  the  loved  one's  window  panes. 
Alas  !  that  the  bridge  is  so  short  a  span, 
That  divides  the  life  of  youth  from  man  ! 

Man,  in  all  his  glory  and  strength, 

He  has  reached  the  middle  stage  at  length  ; 


34  THE    SONG    OF    SEVEN 

Strong  of  purpose  and  Godlike  will, 

He  sends  the  lightning  o'er  vale  and  hill ; 

He  chains  the  mighty  giant  of  steam 

Whose  voice  we  hear  in  the  whistle's  scream  ; 

He  makes  broad  rivers  of  tiny  rills, 

And  tunnels  the  everlasting  hills  ; 

He  marshals  his  armies  on  field  and  plain, 

And  sends  his  ships  o'er  the  boundless  main  ; 

He  plants  his  flag  on  mountain  and  hill, 

And  sails  through  the  azure  sky  at  will ; 

He  binds  two  worlds  by  the  lightning's  power, 

In  the  wonderful  circle  of  an  hour. 

But  the  sun  has  passed  the  meridian  line, 
The  shadows  lengthen  at  day's  decline  ; 
The  ears  grow  weary  of  noise  and  strife, 
The  back  grows  tired  of  the  burden  of  life  : 
And  looking  back  where  the  journey  begun, 
Over  many  a  battle  lost  and  won, 
He  is  ready  to  say,  "  Behold  !  what  a  span 
Are  the  weary,  vanishing  days  of  man" 

There  cometh  a  twilight  cold  and  gray, 

After  the  sunlight  fades  away — 

The  holy  hour  of  the  vesper  song, 

An  hour  when  the  fainting  soul  grows  strong ; 

A  time  when  faith  leads  into  light, 


"  THE    SONG    OF    SEVEN."  35 

When  creed  and  doctrine  have  vanished  quite  ; 
When  he  heareth  the  voice  of  the  Master  mild, 
"  Except  ye  become  as  a  little  child." 

Again  with  the  trust  of  a  little  child, 

He  walks  in  a  pathway  undefined, 

With  feeble  step  and  trembling  limb, 

While  the  sounds  of  life  grow  strangely  dim. 

The  midnight  watch  is  drawing  near, 

The  angel  waits  in  the  outer  hall, 
The  seven  stages  of  life  are  passed, 

And  he  "goeth  in  at  the  Bridegroom's  call." 


LIVING  MARTYRS. 

THINK  you  the  days  of  martyrdom  are  past 
Because  the  flaming  stake  and  torturing  wheel 
Send  up  no  stifling  smoke  or  bitter  groan, 

The  agonies  of  suffering  to  reveal  ? 
Or  think  you  that  the  fagot's  flaming  pyre, 

Or  rack  whereon  the  victim  writhed  in  pain, 
Were  worse  to  bear  than  years  of  living  death 
Without  the  recompense  that  martyrs  gain  ? 

Better  the  swift  destruction  of  the  fire, 

Turning  its  victim  into  ashes  gray, — 
Ashes,  that  feel  no  more  the  scorching  flame, — 

Dust,  by  the  first  light  zephyr  blown  away, — 
Dust,  that  can  feel  not  any  crushing  tread 

Or  thrill  of  anguish  under  bitter  scorn, 
Longing  to  lie  among  the  dreamless  dead, 

Or  wishing  madly  it  had  ne'er  been  born. 

No  tears  for  those  who  win  the  martyr's  crown 
Through  some  brief  hours  of  bitter  tribulation, 

Bearing  a  heavy  cross  but  for  a  day, 
To  win  eternity's  great  compensation. 


LIVING    MARTYRS.  37 

Weep  for  the  martyrs  walking  in  your  midst, 
Who  bear  the  fire  without  an  outward  token, 

Who  tread  the  changeless  round  of  daily  care, 
Wearing  a  smile  altho'  the  heart  be  broken. 

I  read  the  signs  where  fate  has  traced  a  meaning 

About  the  eyes  in  many  a  deepened  line, 
Around  the  lips  where  once  the  smiles  were  beaming, 

Joyless  and  void  of  any  hopeful  sign. 
Weep  saddest  tears  for  those  who  make  no  moaning ; 

The  river  deepens  as  it  nears  the  sea ; 
The  noisy  brawling  brook  runs  loud  and  shallow, 

But  deepest  grief  is  for  eternity. 


"  DAY  UNTO  DAY." 

IF  when  the  crocus  buds  unfold  their  leaves, 
And  hyacinths  make  fragrant  all  the  air, 
The  heart  might  bud  and  blossom  with  new  life. 

Shedding  its  yearly  husks  of  worldly  care, 
Would  not  the  flavor  of  the  fruit  be  lost, 

That  needs  the  suns  and  storms  of  patient  waiting — 
The  wisdom  that  is  only  won  by  toil, 
And  steady  purpose  ever  unabating? 

The  aloe  bears  within  its  secret  heart 

Through  years,  in  which  men  crumble  into  earth. 
The  snow-white  crown  of  patience,  born  at  last 

After  a  century  waiting  for  its  birth. 
Great  heights  are  only  reached  through  patient  climbing  ; 

High  purposes  achieved  not,  save  through  pain  ; 
And  years  of  sacrifice  we  count  as  naught, 

If  some  great  recompense  at  last  we  gain. 

See  how  the  earth  sends  up  her  bounteous  harvests, 
Disheartened  not  by  all  the  winter  snows ; 

And  how  the  skies  put  on  their  May-blue  lining, 
And  summer  winds  unfold  the  roval  rose. 


"  DAY    UNTO    DAY."  39 

And  if  some  winter  clouds  of  deep  dejection 

Shall  chill  the  bud  of  promise  in  the  soul, 
Blighting  it  past  the  hope  of  resurrection, 

Making  it  faint  this  side  the  wished-for  goal — 
We  know  the  seed  was  feeble  and  imperfect, 

Not  one  to  bear  the  ripened  fruit  of  years  ; 
And  come  again,  rejoicing  with  the  harvest, 

Albeit  the  seeds  were  sown  in  bitter  tears 

Whether  your  feet  are  on  the  toilsome  journey 

Up  the  steep  height  whose  temple  is  called  fame, 
Or  whether  with  the  spirit's  earnest  striving, 

The  battlements  of  Heaven  you  would  gain, 
It  matters  not :  the  same  unswerving  patience 

That  leads  you  up  the  rugged  heights  of  time, 
Will  level  for  your  feet  the  heavenward  journey, 

And  fit  your  brow  to  wear  the  crown  sublime. 
Bloom  on,  sweet  hyacinth  and  tender  crocus, 

First  harbingers  of  golden  summer  days  ; 
With  patience  we  await  our  full  fruition, 

With  patience,  toiling  on  thro'  roughest  ways. 


LIFE. 

WE  build  our  puny  works  on  beds  of  sand. 
Gilding  die  roughness  with  a  film  of  gold  ; 
The  winds  loosed  from  the  hollow  of  his  hand 

Sweep  o'er  the  temple,  and  the  tale  is  told. 
We  climb  the  rugged  steeps  of  earthly  fame, 
Leaving  sweet  blossoms  in  the  vale  below, 
And  learn  too  late  that  on  the  upper  height 
Is  the  cold  glitter  of  eternal  snow. 

We  watch  and  wait,  we  strive  and  hope  in  vain, 

For  full  fruition  of  our  happy  dream  ; 
The  mirage  springs  afresh  still  farther  on. 

The  golden  apples  are  not  what  they  seem. 
We  bear  our  crosses  with  too  loud  complaint 

As  if  He  could  not  hear  who  bore  them  first ; 
And  of  the  paths  wherein  our  feet  may  tread, 

With  stubborn  blindness,  oft  we  choose  the  worst. 

Yet,  from  His  human  heart  He  dropped  the  seed 
That  springs  eternal  in  the  deathless  soul ; 

And  the  dim  Teachings  of  our  feeble  hands 
Are  blossoms  of  the  fruit  that  waits  the  goal. 


LIFE.  41 

And  in  the  tender,  erring  heart  He  made, 
With  all  its  faults  and  burdens  of  regret, 

The  imprint  of  a  perfect  life  is  traced, 
The  Kingly  seal  upon  its  tablet  set. 


OUT  OF  THE  DEPTHS. 

STRANGE,  that  under  a  sky  of  blue, 
Where  clouds  of  silver  and  amber  float, 
And  the  crescent  moon  at  eve's  sweet  hour 

Drifts  in  the  blue  like  a  fairy  boat- 
Strange  !   that  under  the  beautiful  sky, 

Like  arms  outstretched  in  holy  prayer, 
Hearts  should  ache  with  a  weary  load, 

And  break,  with  the  burden  of  grief  and  care  ! 

Oh  !  eyes  grown  dim  with  weeping, 

And  cheeks  grown  pale  with  tears, 
Watching,  and  hoping,  and  waiting, 

Through  all  the  weary  years — 
Oh  !   heart  grown  heavy  with  aching, 

And  hiding  your  grief  away, 
And  hands  so  tired  of  making 

Idols  of  perishing  clay — 

Shut  close,  oh  weary  eyelids  ! 

Ye  are  waiting  and  watching  in  vain  ; 
And  drop,  oh  tired  fingers, 

The  thread  of  life's  tangled  skein ! 


OUT    OF    THE    DEPTHS.  43 


Be  silent,  oh  heart,  whose  pulses 
Have  throbbed  with  a  grief  untold  ! 

Take  back,  oh  Giver  of  Life,  from  me 
The  gift  that  I  would  not  hold  ! 


THE  DAYS  THAT  ARE  DEAD. 

THE  sunlight  is  bright  on  the  forest  and  meadow, 
The  lark  and  the  robin  are  trilling  their  song ; 
The  daisies  and  buttercups  border  the  pathway, 

And  nod  to  the  summer  winds  all  the  day  long. 
As  blue  is  the  sky,  and  as  fair  are  the  flowers, 
The  earth  is  a  wonderful  picture  outspread  ; 
But  I  turn  from  the  sunlight,  the  songs,  and  the  blossoms, 
And  sigh  for  the  beautiful  days  that  are  dead. 

Afar  o'er  the  hill-tops  the  day.  robed  in  splendor, 

Comes  forth  like  a  queen  from  the  realm  of  the  sun, 
And  the  valleys  uplift  the  white  veil  of  their  slumber 

To  welcome  the  dawn  of  a  day  just  begun. 
The  dew-spangled  lawn  and  the  glittering  forest 

Drop  gems  at  my  feet  and  o'erjewel  my  head  ; 
But  I  long  for  the  freshness  and  joy  of  the  mornings 

That  came  with  the  beautiful  days  that  are  dead. 

Oh  sweet,  vanished  days  that  went  out  with  the  sunset, 
Shall  I  find  ye  alone  in  the  land  of  my  dreams — 

With  the  friends,  and  the  songs,  and  the  flashes  of  glad- 
ness, 
And  your  skies  mirrored  fair  on  the  silvery  streams? 


THE    DAYS    THAT    ARE    DEAD.  45 

Shall  the  heart  ever  mourn  for  a  song  that  is  silent, 
When  sweetest  of  harmonies  o'er  it  are  shed  ? 

Shall  the  dark  buried  past  find  no  bright  resurrection  ? 
Shall  eternity  bring  back  the  days  that  are  dead  ? 


THE  SWEETEST  HOUR. 

IN  the  sweet  closes  of  the  summer  days, 
When  golden  clouds  have  changed  to  amethyst, 
And  silver  stars  gleam  thro'  the  filmy  haze 

That  night  unfolds  in  shades  of  purple  mist — 
After  the  birds  have  ceased  their  vesper  songs 

And  lullabies,  above  the  unfledged  nest ; 
When  twittering  swallows  seek  the  sheltering  eaves, 
And  bright-winged  insects  flutter  to  their  rest — 

There  comes  the  sweetest  hour  of  all. the  day, 

When  flowers  unfold  their  fragrance  on  the  air, 
And  choice  perfumes  are  borne  upon  the  breeze — 

Nature's  sweet  incense  and  her  silent  prayer. 
Blest  hour,  in  which  the  vexing  cares  of  earth 

Roll  like  a  burden  from  the  weary  breast, 
And  all  the  troubled  waves  of  life  are  stilled, 

As  once  the  Saviour  lulled  the  sea  to  rest. 

In  such  an  hour,  how  soothing  to  the  heart 
Are  strains  of  music  murmured  soft  and  low, 

Like  waves  that  ripple  on  a  summer  sea 

And  break  on  golden  sands  in  ebb  and  flow. 


THE    SWEETEST    HOUR.  4/ 

Blessed  and  holy  hour  when  heaven  is  near 
And  the  glad  soul  mounts  up  on  airy  wing, 

So  near  the  gates  of  jasper  and  of  pearl, 
We  almost  hear  the  song  the  angels  sing. 

And  oh  !   if  angel  visitants  may  come 

From  out  the  shining  spheres  to  this  dull  earth r 
Or  if  the  soul  may  antedate  the  hour 

And  catch  bright  glimpses  of  its  coming  birth, 
It  must  be  when,  with  hearts  attuned  to  love — 

The  perfect  love  which  casteth  out  all  fear — 
The  earth  grows  dim  to  our  far-seeing  eyes, 

While  heavenly  strains  float  in  upon  the  ear  1 


THE  WINDOW  OVER  THE  WAY. 

THERE  'S  a  dainty  window  over  the  way, 
Draped  with  laces  and  decked  with  flowers, 
Where  a  golden  bird  in  a  fairy  cage 

Sings  and  swings  through  the  daylight  hours  ; 
But  his  voice  has  ever  a  mournful  note, 

As  if  he  sighed  for  an  absent  mate, 

Or  dreamed  of  the  forest  green  and  free 

Beyond  the  bars  of  his  golden  grate. 

There  's  a  sweet,  pale  face,  with  heaven-blue  eyes, 

That  looks  from  the  window  over  the  way 
With  a  wishful  gaze  at  the  far-off  skies 

And  the  golden  glow  of  the  fading  day. 
And  the  snowy  hands,  with  their  golden  rings, 

Are  lifted  often  in  vague  unrest, 
Lightly  flitting  from  flower  to  flower, 

Or  folded  over  the  dainty  breast. 

And  I  wonder  if  under  the  silken  robe, 
And  flash  of  the  shining  golden  chain, 

The  bird's  sweet  song  with  the  mournful  tone 
Wakens  an  echo  akin  to  pain  ; 


THE    WINDOW    OVER    THE    WAY.  49 

For  I  know  that  many  an  aching  heart 
Beats  like  the  bird  with  prisoned  wings  ; 

And  I  hear  the  sound  of  the  grieving  note 
In  many  a  song  that  the  poet  sings. 

And  I  long  to  open  the  gilded  cage. 

And  speed  the  happy  bird  as  it  flies, 
And  to  hear  the  music  of  happy  songs, 

Wherein  no  measure  of  sadness  lies  ; 
And  oft  when  the  day  is  growing  dim, 

To  my  heart  I  whisper,  soft  and  low, 
Would  we  were  out  of  the  reach  of  pain, 

Where  the  fadeless  roses  of  heaven  blow. 


MY  MISSING  SHIPS. 

I'M  waiting  for  my  ships  to  come  from  sea  ; 
They  're  overdue  by  many  a  weary  day  ; 
Richly  freighted  with  the  fairest  hopes  of  life — 
Are  they  lost,  or  have  they  drifted  far  away? 

One  was  filled  with  colors  bright, 

Such  as  cunning  artists  blend 
Into  scenes  of  living  light, 

Whose  sweet  witchery  can  lend 
Enchantment  to  the  humblest  scene 

Wherein  the  pictures  dwell ; 
I  fondly  hoped  my  hand  might  learn 

To  weave  the  witching  spell. 

One  was  full  of  glorious  thoughts, 

Such  as  poets  love  to  weave 
Into  chaplets  rich  and  rare, 

Highest  honors  to  achieve  : 
I  hoped  for  power  to  weave  the  verse 

In  patterns  pure  and  bright — 
To  sway  the  listening  multitudes 

And  lead  them  toward  the  light. 


MY    MISSING    SHIPS. 

And  one  rich  bark  was  freighted 

With  music's  heavenly  tone 
To  raise  the  soul  from  earthly  things 

To  regions  of  its  own  : 
I  craved  the  glorious  gift  of  song 

To  bear  the  soul  on  high, 
Upon  the  waves  of  harmony 

Into  the  upper  sky. 

And  one,  the  richest  ship  of  all, 
Was  filled  with  human  love 

For  all  things  bright  and  beautiful — 
My  unreturning  dove. 

And  with  a  sad  and  doubting  face 

I  sit  beside  the  sea, 
And  watch  for  but  the  floating  wreck 

Of  my  rich  argosy  ; 
Unheeding  what  the  wild  waves  say,, 

With  ceaseless  monotone — 
"Thou  waitest  not  beside  the  sea 

For  sunken  ships  alone." 


5* 


"LITTLE  BOY  BLUE." 

DEAR  little  boy  with  the  trowsers  blue, 
And  eyes  of  the  same  bright  sunny  hue, 
With  hair  the  color  of  flaxen  thread, 
Curling  in  ringlets  round  your  head, 
"  Blow  up  your  horn." 

Blow  a  blast  on  your  tiny  horn, 
And  frighten  the  sheep  from  the  field  of  corn, 
Scare  the  horses  out  of  the  hay, 
And  then  you  may  go  to  your  merry  play ; 
"  The  sheep  are  in  the  meadow." 

The  sheep  came  in  through  the  open  bars 
And  browsed  all  night  by  the  light  of  the  stars ; 
They  trampled  the  hay  beneath  their  feet, 
And  fed  on  the  meadow  lilies  sweet ; 
"  The  cows  are  in  the  corn." 

Brindle  and  Spot  are  in  the  corn, 
They  leaped  the  fence  in  the  early  morn, 
And  the  silken  tassels  are  bending  low, 
'Neath  the  onward  march  of  the  coming  foe  ; 

"  Where  's  the  little  boy  that  looks  after  the  sheep  ?  " 


"  LITTLE    BOY    BLUE.  53 

What  has  become  of  the  little  man 
Who  blows  his  horn  like  an  infant  Pan? 
We  need  him  here  ;  oh,  where  can  he  be? 
Some  one  run  to  the  meadow  and  see  ; — 
"  Under  the  hay-stack,  fast  asleep." 

Here  on  a  fragrant  bed  of  hay 
The  blue-eyed  truant  in  slumber  lay — 
Dreaming  of  fields  that  need  no  bars, 
And  meadows  spangled  with  golden  stars. 
And  I  say,  dream  on,  my  beautiful  boy — 
Dream  of  a  world  that  is  full  of  joy  ; 
Gather  the  rose-buds  while  you  may, 
And  forget  the  sheep  and  the  fields  of  hay. 
All  too  soon  will  you  watch  and  wait, 
Guarding  the  fields  by  Mammon's  gate, 
And  the  world  will  trample  our  precious  corn, 
Tho'  never  so  bravely  you  blow  your  ho. 


SPRING  GROVE. 

/'""\UT  of  the  noisy  city, 

V-^      The  tramp  of  hurrying  feet, 

The  whirl  of  a  busy  million. 

The  dust  of  a  crowded  street ; 
Safe  from  the  din  and  conflict, 

Far  from  the  noise  and  strife, 
Lieth  a  beautiful  city, 

With  never  a  sound  of  life. 

A  city  so  fair  that  we  almost  dream 

We  have  reached  the  golden  shore. 
Where*    ^rmore  we  may  walk  in  white. 

Where  they  "sorrow  and  sigh  no  more." 
Where  the  sun  with  a  mellowed  splendor 

Throws  shadows  of  softest  hue  ; 
Where  the  wild  bird's  song  is  sweetest, 

And  the  sky  of  a  deeper  blue. 

Beautiful,  silent  city  ! 

We  left  thee  with  lingering  feet. 
And  a  spirit  filled  with  solemn  awe, 

'Neath  an  influence  calm  and  sweet; 


SPRING    GROVE.  55 

And  ever  in  memory's  chambers, 

The  beautiful  picture  will  dwell — 
The  lake  in  its  sylvan  beauty, 

The  shady  and  tangled  dell ; 

The  little  grave  that  affection 

Hath  hallowed  with  many  a  tear ; 
The  granite  shaft,  and  the  rustic  cross, 

And  the  soldier's  grave  so  dear. 
And  I  thought  when  this  restless  life  is  o'er, 

How  sweet  it  would  be  to  rest 
Where  the  good  and  brave  are  sleeping 

The  sleep  that  remains  for  the  blest. 


AT  REST. 

ALL  thro'  the  beautiful  summer. 
Her  path  led  down  to  the  wav 
Where  she  entered  the  valley  of  shadows 

That  leads  to  eternal  day  ; 
And  ere  the  splendor  of  autumn 

Had  waned  to  days  that  were  chill. 
The  clasp  of  her  hand  was  loosened, 
And  the  lovely  voice  was  still. 

And  we  who  had  watched  her  fading 

So  peacefully,  day  by  day, 
Could  scarcely  weep  when  the  spirit 

Escaped  from  its  house  of  clay  ; 
For  she  feared  not  the  way  of  darkness. 

As  she  said  with  her  latest  breath  : 
"Yea,  tho'  I  walk  thro'  the  valley, 

I  fear  not  the  shadow  of  death." 

And  thus,  with  a  faith  confiding, 
She  leaned  on  her  Savior's  breast. 

And  calmly,  as  one  in  slumber, 
She  entered  the  heavenly  rest. 


AT    REST. 

And  we  felt  in  the  Sabbath  stillness 
Which  fell  on  the  darkened  room 

Where  she  lay  in  her  fair  young  beautv. 
There  was  nothing  there  of  gloom  : 

For  the  hands  of  love  had  decked  her— 

The  beautiful  bride  of  death — 
With  fair  white  roses  and  heliotropes, 

That  filled  the  room  with  their  breath. 
And  we  felt,  though  the  sainted  spirit 

Had  flown  to  its  home  on  high, 
She  had  left  in  our  hearts  a  memory 

Whose  fragrance  can  never  die. 


SI 


IN  MEMORIAM. 

HOW  shall  we  twine  the  Christmas  green, 
Or  wreath  the  Easter  lilies  white, 
Or  find  a  voice  for  happy  hymns, 

When  Sabbaths  dawn  in  radiant  light. 

Our  human  hearts  with  grief  are  dumb, 
We  grope  thro'  mists  of  blinding  tears  ; 

The  while  we  know  she  waits  for  us, 
Beyond  the  swiftly  whirling  years. 

A  glorious  advent  day  was  hers  : 

While  all  the  earth  was  robed  in  white 

She  put  the  robes  immortal  on, 

To  dwell  where  morning  has  no  night. 

And  even  while  our  aching  hearts 

In  grief  and  bitter  anguish  swell, 
Refusing  to  be  comforted, 

We  know,  with  her,  that  all  is  well. 

.But  oh  !  we  miss  the  loving  voice, 

The  step  in  each  familiar  spot ; 
Our  hearts  send  up  the  Rachel  cry — 

We  mourn  because  the  loved  is  not. 


LAMENT  FOR  ALICE  CAREY. 

OH,  sweet  wild  flowers  of  early  spring ! 
Pale  hyacinth,  and  daffodil, 
And  blue-eyed  violet,  tender  thing, 

Growing  beside  the  shady  rill ; 
Sweet  pansy,  with  the  look  of  thought, 

And  lily  of  the  valley  fair, 
Bend  low  your  heads,  with  sorrow  fraught, 

And  looks  of  softest  sadness  wear : 
For  she  who  loved  you  best  below, 

Hath  no  more  need  of  earthly  flowers ; 
Now,  where  the  bright  immortelles  gi'ow, 

She  can  not  miss  a  love  like  ours. 

Fair  meadows,  shining  in  the  sun, 

And  forest,  dark  with  mistletoe, 
Bright  rivers,  flowing  swiftly  down, 

Laughing  and  rippling  as  ye  go — 
No  more  will  you  appear  more  bright, 

In  the  sweet  sunshine  of  her  love, 
As  by  the  rivers  of  delight, 

Through  pastures  green,  her  steps  now  rove. 


60  LAMENT    FOR    ALICE    CAREY. 

Sad  hearts  that  ache  for  sympathy, 

Bruised  reeds  bent  by  life's  stormy  wind. 
The  tenderest  heart  that  beats  for  you 

No  more  the  broken  chords  may  bind. 
And  in  the  blossom-laden  air 

I  seem  to  hear  a  sad  refrain, 
A  low  and  thrilling  monotone 

Of  "  Never  mpre  on  earth  again." 


RELEASED. 

WITH  patient  feet  she  walked  life's  weary  way, 
With  patient  hands  she  wrought  her  homely  toil, 
And  kept  thro'  all  her  dreary  pilgrimage 
A  pure  unselfish  soul,  without  a  soil. 

There  was  no  halo  round  about  her  head 

Such  as  the  pictured  saints  of  Raphael  wear, 

And  yet  a  radiance  lit  the  wondrous  eyes 
And  rested  softly  on  her  brow  and  hair. 

And  there  was  something  in  the  mournful  lips 
That  touched  your  sympathy  to  sudden  tears. 

That  one  should  carry  such  a  weight  of  grief 
Whose  life  had  numbered  but  a  few  brief  years. 

She  had  an  artist's  eye  for  all  things  fair, 
A  poet's  soul  for  all  the  pure  and  bright : 

The  sunset  sky  a  language  had  for  her, 

And  lovely  visions  dawned  upon  her  sight. 

A  love  for  all  the  beautiful  in  art, 

A  dream  of  glorious  lands  beyond  the  sea  ; 

Yet,  mute  and  uncomplaining  of  her  lot, 
She  bore  the  heavy  burdens  cheerfully. 


62  RELEASED. 

And  music,  too,  found  echo  in  her  soul 

That  throbbed  and  trembled  'neath  sweet  melody  ; 

A  sad  and  prisoned  song  her  spirit  sung, 
Even  as  the  shell  sings  of  the  far-off  sea. 

Therefore,  I  did  not  weep  when  others  wept, 

To  see  the  hands  crossed  o'er  the  pulseless  breast, 

And  the  sweet  eyes  closed  in  a  dreamless  sleep, 
The  weary  feet  forever  more  at  rest. 

I  knew  that  she  had  fought  the  winning  fight, 
And  conquered  self,  and  put  beneath  her  feet 

The  world  with  all  its  vanity  and  strife, 
Ambition's  siren  song,  and  love  so  sweet. 

I  knew  the  brow,  so  free  from  mortal  sin, 

Was  crowned  at  last  with  fadeless  immortelle, 

And  that  the  crowning  angel  had  removed 
Forever  more  the  gloomy  asphodel. 


NETTIE. 

THOU  gavest  her,  dear  Lord,  into  our  keeping, 
And  Thou  hast  called  her  home. 
With  breaking  hearts  we  strive  to  dry  our  weeping. 

And  say,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 
We  know  full  well  our  bud  of  brightest  promise 

Will  blossom  in  the  radiant  summer-land, 
And  the  sweet  voice  that-  filled  our  home  with  music 

Now  mingles  with  the  glorious  angel  band. 
We  know  that  safe  above  the  cares  and  sorrows 

And  wails  of  earthly  woe,  she  is  at  rest, 
And  that  the  cup  which  Thou  hast  drank,  our  Father, 

Thou  knowest  for  us  is  best. 

Our  dear,  lost  Nettie,  life  is  very  lonely  ; 

We  know  not  how  to  pass  the  weary  day : 
Thro'  all  the  house  we  miss  thy  joyous  footstep, 

Thy  light  and  merry  play  ; 
And  when  at  morn  we  miss  thy  tender  greeting, 

Thy  kiss  at  night,  and  see  thine  empty  bed, 
We  can  not  still  the  heart's  tumultuous  beating, 

And  know  that  thou  art  dead. 


64  NETTIE. 

Oh  !  was  there  ever  sorrow  like  to  ours  ? 

Can  anguish  ever  take  a  form  more  wild, 
Than  that  which  sweeps  upon  us  when  we  miss 

From  out  our  home  a  loved  and  only  child? 


NEVER  AGAIN. 

AMONG  the  words  full  fraught  with  deepest  meaning, 
That  sweep  the  soul  with  bitterness  and  pain, 
None  bear  the  echoes  of  all  tender  sorrow 
Like  to  these  simple  words — "  Never  again." 

Never  again  for  us  the  sweet  June  roses 

Will  hold  the  fragrance  that  they  held  of  yore ; 

The  warm  south  winds  can  bring  the  bloom  and  freshness, 
The  budding  joy  of  spring,  to  us  no  more. 

The  sky  may  wear  its  tint  of  softest  azure, 

Yet  under  all  we  hear  the  sad  refrain, 
For  days  that  faded  with  the  golden  sunset, 

Whose  light  shall  never  shine  for  us  again. 

And  bending  over  pale  and  silent  faces 

Wa.drop  our  bitter,  unavailing  tears  ; 
Weeping  because  the  voice  of  sweetest  music 

Shall  sound  no  more  thro'  all  life's  weary  years. 

We  hoard  the  withered  flower  and  tear-stained  letter, 
The  little  shoe  that  pattered  on  the  floor, 

The  curl  of  glossy  hair,  the  faded  garment 
That  once  the  darling  of  the  household  wore. 


66  NEVER    AGAIN. 

No  freshly  gathered  rose  could  hold  the  meaning 
We  read  amid  these  faded  leaves  of  ours  ; 

No  fair  white  page,  tho'  traced  with  golden  letters, 
Could  bring  such  memories  of  happy  hours. 

So  hiding  from  the  world  our  priceless  treasure, 
And  locking  in  our  hearts  their  secret  pain, 

We  weep  above  the  fragments  of  our  idols, 
Knowing  our  sorrows  and  our  tears  are  vain. 


THE  VESPER  BELL. 

MOURNFUL  bell,  in  the  steeple  high, 
Dropping  your  chimes  on  the  evening  sky, 

Ever  ringing  a  dead  day's  knell 
At  the  vesper  hour,  oh  solemn  bell ! 

Tho'  I  know  your  sound  is  a  call  to  prayer 
Wafted  out  on  the  summer  air, 

Calling  the  weary  wanderer  in 

From  the  dust  of  toil  and  the  stain  of  sin, 

Saying,  in  silvery  waves  of  sound, 
Seek  for  rest  while  it  may  be  found  ; 

Tho'  I  know  how  the  burden  of  sin  and  care 
Is  rolled  away  by  the  breath  of  prayer. 

And  the  hope  which  dawns  with  a  happier  thrill 
When  the  angel  whispers,  "  Peace,  be  still." 

Ever  there  comes  with  the  vesper  bell 
A  sadness  beyond  my  words  to  tell — 

A  backward  glimpse  of  the  whirling  years, 
And  a  blindness  born  of  sudden  tears  : 


68  THE    VESPER    BELL. 

Not  for  the  days  which  lie  behind, 
Gone  like  the  viewless,  rushing  wind  ; 

Not  for  the  graves  of  buried  hopes, 
That  lie  so  thickly  on  all  the  slopes  ; 

But  once,  when  the  day  was  going  down 
Like  a  dying  king,  in  robe  and  crown, 

And  the  bell  was  ringing  the  vesper  chime 
For  one  day  less  on  the  shore  of  time, 

A  life  went  out  on  the  unknown  sea 
That  breaks  on  the  shores  of  eternity — 

A  beautiful  spirit  passed  away 

Where  night  shall  never  darken  the  day. 

And  ever  I  feel  the  solemn  spell 

When  I  hear  the  chimes  of  the  evening  bell ; 

For  it  seems  the  voice  of  the  spirit  fled, 
And  a  presence  comes  with  soundless  tread, 

And  rolls  away  the  burden  of  years, 

And  I  see  her  face  through  the  mist  of  tears. 


UNRETURNING. 

THE  sands  were  white  in  the  morning  sun, 
And  the  sea-birds  sailed  on  level  wing, 
The  waves  came  dancing  in  to  the  beach 

Where  boats  were  rocking  with  lazy  swing, 
And  a  ship  sailed  out  till,  dim  and  white, 
The  sails  went  down  from  my  aching  sight. 

And  what  cared  I  for  the  shining  sands 
Or  the  merry  songs  that  the  sailors  sung, 

When  my  heart  was  full  of  passionate  pain, 
And  my  soul  with  the  parting  sorrow  wrung? 

For  the  world  grew  strangely  dark  to  me 

When  the  ship  went  out  on  the  widening  sea. 

And  the  years  went  on,  the  tides  came  in, 
The  white  sands  shifted  along  the  shore, 

And  the  sea-birds  skimmed  o'er  the  sunken  reef, 
But  the  ship  that  sailed  came  home  no  more, 

And  the  broken  wrecks  come  drifting  back 

From  the  desolate  course  of  her  outward  track. 


MOTHER  GOOSE. 

TELL  me  a  story,  mamma, 
One  that  is  not  very  long, 
I  am  getting  so  tired  and  sleepy. 

Or  sing  me  a  little  song  ; 
Something  about  the  boy  in  blue 

That  watches  the  cows  and  sheep. 
Who  ought  to  get  up  and  blow  the  horn, 
But  he  lies  in  the  hay  asleep." 

And  I  answered  with  quick  impatience. 

While  he  hung  his  sleepy  head  : 
"  No,  not  a  story  or  song  to-night : 

Bertie  must  go  to  bed." 
But  after  the  room  was  silent, 

And  the  weary  boy  asleep, 
And  never  a  sound  fell  on  my  ear. 

Save  the  cricket's  lonely  peep, 

The  voice,  with  the  tone  of  pleading, 
Kept  coming,  again  and  again, 
"Tell  me  a  story,  or  sing  me  a  song," 
Till  I  could  not  bear  the  pain  ; 


MOTHER    GOOSE.  fl 

So  I  went  with  stealthy  footstep 
To  see  how  my  darling  slept — 

Weak  and  foolish  though  it  may  seem, 
I  knelt  by  the  bed  and  wept. 

To  think  that  I  had  denied  him 

The  song  that  he  loved  so  well, 
And  refused  the  simple  story, 

That  none  but  a  mother  can  tell. 
And  I  said,  "  Sleep  on,  sweet  dreamer ; 

Fear  not  the  cows  and  the  sheep  ; 
Dream  that  you  lie  in  the  meadow, 

Under  the  hay  asleep. 
All  too  soon  will  you  waken, 

To  watch  o'er  the  fields  of  corn  ; 
All  too  soon  will  the  sheep  get  in, 

Though  you  bravely  blow  your  horn." 


A   SUMMER   STORM. 

LOW  in  the  west  a  leaden  bank   uprising 
Shuts  out  the  radiant  blue,  and  dims  the  sun, 
While  hosts  of  tiny  clouds,  like  flying  banners. 

Mingle  their  many  colors  into  one  ; 
And  rolling  heaviby,  like  roar  of  battle, 

The  thunders  sweep  along  the  dismal  sky, 
While  gathering  shadows  dim  the  field  and  forest, 
And  wandering  song-birds  to  their  shelter  fly. 

A  flash,  as  if  the  doors  of  heaven  were  opened, 

And  fiery  writing  blazoned  on  the  wall ; 
Then  heavier  darkness,  and  a  solemn  grandeur, 

As  if  a  dead  world  slept  beneath  a  pall. 
A  mournful  whisper  creeps  along  the  valley, 

The  forest  lightens  with  its  upturned  leaves, 
And  far  across  the  meadow,  from  her  covert, 

The  mourning  dove  in  plaintive  accent  grieves. 

A  swaying  of  the  forest,  like  the  bending 
Of  loyal  subjects  when  their  king  is  nigh  ; 

A  fiery  flame,  swift  followed  by  the  thunder, 
Like  charges  where  a  thousand  heroes  die. 


A    SUMMER    STORM.  73 

Anon,  a  rift  of  blue  thro'  broken  shadows 

Shines  where  the  stormy  rack  its  way  pursued  ; 

Then,  arching  over  earth,  the  radiant  promise 
In  beauty  and  in  glory  is  renewed. 


DRIFTING  WITH  THE  TIDE. 

EVEN  as  the  rower  in  the  waters  calm 
Lets  drop  the  oars,  to  drift  with  the  slow  tide, 
And  listens  dreamily  to  far-off  sounds — 

Listens  with  hands  dropped  idly  by  his  side, 
And  hears,  perchance,  the  music  of  a  flute 

Come  trembling  o'er  the  silvery  summer  sea. 
Or  chime  of  distant  bells,  borne  on  the  air, 
Breaking  in  throbs  of  mournful  melody — 

And  sees,  as  in  a  waking  dream,  the  sails 

Of  the  white  ships  pass  slowly  from  his  view, 
And  the  round  moon  come  up  above  the  wave, 

Silvering  a  path  across  the  waters  blue  ; 
Or  the  bright  stars  in  clustering  groups  of  light, 

Like  gems  upon  the  brow  of  some  fair  queen, 
Mirrored  upon  the  waters  clear  and  bright, 

Like  the  enchantment  of  some  gorgeous  scene  ; 

So  am  I  drifting,  idly  with  the  tide, 

Weary  with  rowing  through  the  rapid  waves. 

Where  whirling  waters  threatened  to  engulph, 
And  draw  me  down  to  deep  and  dismal  caves. 


DRIFTING    WITH    THE    TIDE.  75 

'Gainst  wind  and  wave  I  gained  this  quiet  rest. 

And  with  calm  heart  I  watch  the  fading  sails. 
For  me  the  storms  are  past,  the  tempest  stilled, 

I  fear  no  more  the  fury  of  the  gales. 

And  memory  bells  are  ringing  in  my  ear 

Sweet  sounds  from  the  dim  shores  of  long  ago — 
The  dim  and  flowery  shores  from  which  I  sailed 

When  earth  was  radiant  with  the  morning's  glow. 
Alas !  the  flowers  vanished  from  my  view, 

For  the  broad  stream  grew  far  from  shore  to  shore, 
And  all  the  glory  faded  from  the  skies, 

And  tempest-clouds  abo>  e  my  track  did  lower. 

But  now,  with  childish  trustfulness,  I  wait 

All  patiently,  beneath  the  dews  of  even, 
The  pilot  boatman  that  shall  guide  me  hence, 

Out  of  the  twilight,  to  a  glorious  haven. 
And  I  shall  see  once  more  the  flowery  banks 

From  which  my  bark  went  forth  upon  the  stream  ; 
And  in  the  perfect  rapture  of  repose, 

The  stormy  past  will  vanish  as  a  dream. 


"  THE  WAY  OF  THE  WORLD." 

THERE  are  beautiful  songs  that  we  never  sing. 
And  names  that  are  never  spoken  ; 
There  are  treasures  guarded  with  jealous  care, 

And  kept  as  a  sacred  token  : 
There  are  faded  flowers,  and  letters  dim 

With  tears  that  have  rained  above  them 
For  the  fickle  words  and  the  faithless  hearts 
That  taught  us  how  to  love  them. 

There  are  sighs  that  come  in  our  joyous  hours, 

To  chasten  our  dreams  of  gladness, 
And  tears  that  spring  to  our  aching  eyes 

In  moments  of  thoughtful  sadness  ; 
For  the  blithest  bird  that  sings  in  spring 

Will  flit" with  the  waning  summer, 
And  lips  that  we  kissed  in  fondest  love 

Will  smile  on  the  first  new  comer. 

Over  the  breast  where  lilies  rest 

In  white  hands,  stilled  forever. 
The  roses  of  June  will  nod  and  blow 

Unheeding  the  hearts  that  sever  ; 


"  THE   WAY   OF    THE    WORLD."  Jf 

And  lips  that  quiver  in  silent  grief. 

All  words  of  hope  refusing', 
Will  lightly  turn  to  the  fleeting  joys 

That  perish  with  the  using. 

Summer  blossoms  and  winter  snows, 

Love  and  its  sweet  elysian, 
Hope,  like  a  siren  dim  and  fair, 

Quickening  our  fainting  vision  ; 
Drooping  spirit  and  failing  pulse, 

Where  untold  memories  hover  ; 
Eyelids  touched  with  the  seal  of  death — 

And  the  fitful  dream  is  over. 


UNDER  THE  AUTUMN  RAIN. 

MY  heart  is  full  of  sadness  to-night 
As  I  hear  the  sound  of  the  falling  rain, 
And  thronging  memories  fill  my  soul 

With  a  feeling  akin  to  pain  ; 
For  I  see  in  fancy  the  smiling  eyes, 

But  wait  for  the  steps  in  vain, 
And  I  weep,  that  the  lips  which  smiled  in  May 
Are  under  the  autumn  rain. 

For  the  summer  is  past,  and  the  harvest 

Is  gathered  in  from  the  storm, 
And  the  robin  has  flown  from  the  roof-tree 

To  skies  that  are  ever  warm  ; 
And  the  leaves  have  dropped  from  the  roses, 

And  the  hands  that  we  loved  are  still, 
Never  to  gather  the  summer  flowers, 

Our  favorite  vase  to  fill. 

Though  we  know  in  the  beautiful  city 
Our  loved  ones  are  gathered  home, 

Sheltered  for  aye,  from  the  chilling  blast, 
Where  sorrow  may  never  come, 


UNDER    THE    AUTUMN    RAIN.  7^ 

Yet  our  hearts  are  forever  aching 

And  crying  in  vain,  in  vain, 
For  the  eyes  that  shone  in  the  May  time, 

Shut  close  'neath  the  autumn  rain. 


o 


SORROW  CROWNED. 

* 
H,  idle  hands  that  lie  content 


In  idleness  the  livelong  day, 
And  lips  that  never,  never  smile, 

And  eyes  that  look  so  far  away, 
Think  you  I  know  not  why  the  hands 

Drop  wearied  from  their  task  apart. 
And  why  the  sunlight  of  a  smile 

Can  wake  no  answer  in  thy  heart? 

I  know  there's  not  a  gentle  song, 

Sung  lowly  at  the  hush  of  eve, 
But  wakes  in  thee  some  memory, 

And  makes  the  sorrowing  spirit  grieve  ; 
And  when  the  earth  is  all  athrob 

With  pulses  of  the  living  spring, 
And  troops  of  silver  clouds  float  by 

Like  happy  spirits  wandering  ; 

When  earth  is  one  grand  psalm  of  praise 
And  tribute  to  the  bounteous  Giver, 

And  life  goes  on  thro'  flowery  ways, 

As  thro'  bright  banks  some  shining  river — 


• 


SORROW    CROWNED.  8l 

The  sunshine  only  mocks  thy  grief 
That  never  more  from  joy  can  borrow 

One  moment  of  forgetfulness, 
Or  hope  for  any  coming  morrow. 


ONLY. 

ONLY  a  kiss  at  parting, 
Only  a  fond  embrace  ; 
But  the  tide  of  years,  with  its  hopes  and  fears r 
Can  never  the  dream  efface. 

Only  a  careless  meeting. 

Only  a  chilling  gaze  ; 
But  the  heart  will  carry  the  cruel  wound 

Through  all  life's  devious  ways. 

Only  a  bitter  heartache, 

Only  some  womanly  tears  ; 
But  the  love  that  changes  not  with  change 

Lives  on  thro'  eternity's  years. 

Only  the  thrilling  memory 

Of  a  happy  moment  fled, 
And  all  the  days  that  follow  its  wake 

Are  cold,  and  empty,  and  dead. 


TEARS. 

Tears,  idle  tears,  I  know  not  what  they  mean. 
Tears  from  the  depth  of  some  divine  despair 
Rise  to  my  heart,  and  overflow  mine  eyes, 
In  looking  on  the  happy  autumn  fields, 
And  thinking-  of  the  days  that  are  no  more. 

—  Tennyson. 

AYE,  tears  that  well  up  from  the  heart's  deep  foun- 
tain, 
The  while  my  feet  press  through  the  rustling  leaves 
Of  autumn  fields,  shorn  of  the  golden  grain, 
Conscious  that  I  am  bearing  in  no  sheaves. 

With  empty  hands  I  come  too  late  for  gleaning, 
The  harvest  gathered,  and  the  vintage  pressed  ; 

I  lingered  where  the  wayside  flowers  were  blooming, 
And  idly  sought  green  lanes  of  pleasant  rest. 

And  now,  through  fields  of  sharp  and  bristling  stubble 
My  weary  feet  have  lost  their  wonted  power, 

Take  Thou  my  empty  hands,  O  pitying  Savior, 
Even  though  I  come  beyond  the  eleventh  hour. 


A  JUNE  IDYL. 

JUST  far  enough  from  the  dim  town 
To  see  the  spires  gleam  through  the  haze, 
And  catch  the  glory  of  the  sun 

That  gilds  them  with  a  golden  blaze. 
How  sweet,  in  such  a  day  as  this. 

To  watch  through  interlacing  trees 
The  troops  of  silver  clouds  go  by, 

Blown  softly  by  a  summer  breeze, 
That  scarcely  lifts  from  off  my  brow 

The  locks  which  fall  in  loosened  maze, 
Abandoned  to  the  winds  that  blow, 

This  sweetest  of  all  summer  days  ! 

Between  the  sunset  glow  and  I, 

I  see  the  billowy  fields  of  grain 
Lie  half  in  sunshine,  half  in  shade, 

As  o'er  our  lives  fall  joy  and  pain  ; 
And  far  away  I  see  the  hills 

Traced  dimly  on  the  evening  sky, 
Like  blessed  isles  in  happy  dreams, 

Where  all  our  golden  treasures  lie. 


A  JUNE    IDYL.  85 

And  softly  on  the  charmed  repose 

There  falls  a  far-off  evening  bell, 
A  sound  that  drops  from  out  the  sky, 

For  the  lost  day  a  dying  knell. 
Float  calmly  through  the  sunset  gate, 

While  earth  and  sky  are  all  in  tune? 
Farewell !  thou  rare  and  perfect  day, 

Sweetest  of  all  the  days  of  June. 

The  happy,  twittering  birds  return, 

To  sing  above  the  unfledged  nest, 
And  bright-winged  insects  quit  the  sky, 

And  flutter  to  their  evening  rest. 
Afar  from  all  life's  jarring  sounds, 

Alone  with  nature  and  with  God, 
My  heart  sends  up  a  happy  song, 

The  while  my  tears  laedew  the  sod. 
If  to  my  life's  brief  term  of  years 

I  might  from  out  the  banished  past 
Have  one  bright  day  to  live  again, 

I  'd  choose  the  hour  that  vanished  last. 


A  DAY  IN  THE  WOODS. 

WE  walked  through  the  grand  old  forest, 
O'er  drifts  of  withering  leaves, 
And  through  the  fields  where  the  harvest 

Was  gathered  in  shining  sheaves  ; 
The  sun  was  high  in  the  heavens, 

Veiled  with  a  luminous  mist, 
And  the  clouds  kept  changing  from  amber  gold 
To  opal  and  amethyst. 

The  oak  wore  royal  purple, 

The  beech  was  in  cloth  of  gold, 
The  elm  and  hickpry  flecked  with  green, 

The  maple  in  scarlet  bold  ; 
Over  the  shining  river 

There  floated  an  azure  haze, 
And  the  hills  seemed  fading  away  like  dreams 

That  we  knew  in  the  far-off  days. 

A  brooding  stillness  was  over  all, 

And  many  an  empty  nest 
Where  late  the  garrulous  mother-bird 

Had  warbled  her  young  to  rest ; 


A    DAY    IN    THE    WOODS.  87 

And  a  silence  fell  between  us, 

A  feeling  too  deep  for  words, 
As  we  thought  of  the  vanished  summer, 

And  the  empty  nests  of  the  birds. 

I  gathered  the  maple's  scarlet  leaves 

That  floated  and  fell  at  my  feet, 
Content  to  walk  in  the  silence, 

Feeling  a  joy  complete  ; 
And  out  of  the  autumn  forest 

With  thoughtful  hearts  we  came, 
When  the  sun  was  low  in  the  western  sky, 

Bathed  in  a  crimson  flame. 

Our  paths  lay  not  together, 

We  parted  at  eventide  ; 
I  knew  that  the  beautiful  day  was  dead, 

And  something  I  knew  beside. 
I  knew  that  the  vanished  summer 

No  memory  held  for  me 
So  sweet  as  the  bright  October  day, 

When  I  walked  in  the  woods  with  thee. 


A  SUMMER  NIGHT. 

THE  drowsy  air  of  the  summer  night 
Is  stirred  by  the  song  of  the  katydid  ; 
Under  a  canopy  of  leaves 

The  wings  of  the  humming-bird  are  hid  mT 
Out  of  the  heart  of  the  mignonette 

A  fragrance  floats  on  the  passing  air. 
And  the  signal  lamps  are  hung  on  high 
To  lead  our  souls  from  a  world  of  care. 

The  tremulous  sound  of  a  plaintive  tune 

Blown  soft  and  low  from  a  distant  flute, 
And  the  far-off'  tinkle  of  rhythmic  keys 

Are  mingled  sweet  as  a  chiming  lute  ; 
The  vesper  songs  of  the  birds  are  still, 

The  lily  cradles  the  slumbering  bee, 
The  hush  of  twilight  covers  the  earth, 

And  darkness  gathers  over  the  sea. 

And  I  wonder  where  is  the  vanished  day 

That  went  like  a  king  through  gates  of  gold. 

With  the  dewy  robe  of  the  evening  mist 
Trailing  in  many  a  shining  fold. 


A   SUMMER   NIGHT.  89 

I  know  that  the  morrow  waits,  perchance, 
To  gladden  my  way  with  summer  flowers  ; 

But  where  is  the  beautiful  yesterday, 
With  its  shining  train  of  sunny  hours? 

Does  some  one  wait  in  the  happj'  light 

Of  the  summer  day  that  is  dead  to  me  ? 
Will  some  glad  message  follow  the  sun 

To  brighten  the  day  that  is  yet  to  be  ? 
Beyond  the  feverish  dreams  of  life 

Shall  we  find,  when  the  fitful  hour  is  o'er, 
The  garnered  hopes  of  a  happy  past 

In  the  golden  light  of  the  farther  shore  ? 


HOME   TO   THE  VILLAGE. 

SO  you  have  been  to  the  village 
.    And  the  homestead  over  the  hill, 
And  walked  once  more  down  the  shady  road 

That  leads  to  the  old  grist-mill  ? 
What  of  the  old  log  school-house, 

With  its  benches  narrow  and  hard, 
The  desks  where  we  used  to  carve  our  names, 
And  the  trees  that  shaded  the  yard  : 

The  homestead  roof  is  mossy  and  gray, 

Its  rooms  are  empty  and  still, 
The  weeds  are  trailing  over  the  walks, 

And  mildew  darkens  the  sill. 
The  dear  old  road  by  the  river 

Is  tracked  by  the  iron  rail, 
And  the  shadows  under  the  maples 

Have  fled  as  a  swift-told  tale. 
The  school-house,  ragged  and  roofless. 

Stands  where  it  did  of  yore  ; 
But  the  dancing  feet  of  the  children 

Waken  the  echoes  no  more. 


HOME    TO    THE    VILLAGE. 

Alas  !  for  the  dear  old  school-house — 

But  where  are  the  boys  and  girls, 
With  their  merry  pranks  and  laughter, 

Their  songs  and  their  sunny  curls? 
Is  the  old  shop-door  still  open? 

Does  the  anvil  chorus  ring 
To  the  strokes  of  the  sturdy  blacksmith, 

And  the  songs  that  he  used   to  sing? 
And  the  quiet  spot  on  the  hillside, 

Where  the  sweet  blush  roses  grow — 
Did  you  look  on  the  shining  marbles 

For  the  names  that  we  used  to  know  ? 

Where  are  the  boys  and  girls?     Ah,  me  ! 

I  talked  with  a  gray-haired  man, 
Never  guessing,  until  he  told, 

That  he  was  the  merry  Dan 
Who  locked  the  master  out  in  the  cold 

And  made  him  treat  the  crowd  ; 
Who  stood  up  longest  at  spelling-school, 

And  looked  so  handsome  and  proud. 
There  's  a  grand  new  school-house  on  the  spot 

Where  the  anvil  used  to  sound, 
And  the  arm  that  wielded  the  heavy  sledge 

Is  resting  under  the  ground. 


91 


92  HOME    TO    THE    VILLAGE. 

I  walked  where  the  western  sunbeams 

Touched  with  their  fingers  of  gold 
The  names  on  the  mossy  marbles 

That  we  loved  in  the  days  of  old. 
And  the  purple  shadows  of  evening 

Fell  on  the  day  and  my  tears, 
As  I  wept  for  the  vanished  faces 

That  I  knew  in  the  bygone  years. 
They  are  gone,  and  their  names  are  fading ; 

They  are  scattered  far  and  near. 
Some  have  carved  on  the  scroll  of  fame 

The  names  that  were  first  carved  here  ; 
But  oft,  in  the  din  and  jostle, 

There  cometh  a  vision  still 
Of  the  beautiful  vanished  summers 

And  the  school-house  over  the  hill. 


A  SONG  OF  VANISHED  YEARS. 

T    HAVE  within  my  heart  a  song, 
-*-      Perhaps  't  were  better  left  unsung ; 
Its  sadness  might  oppress  some  soul 

E'en  as  mine  own  with  grief  is  wrung. 
But  sometimes  when  the  day  grows  dim. 

And  none  are  by  to  heed  my  tears, 
I  touch  the  harp  of  memory, 

And  sing  the  song  of  vanished  years. 

I  sing  of  one  who,  years  ago, 

Looked  at  the  world  with  eager  eyes, 
And  longings  for  the  far-off  goal 

That  seemed  so  fair  and  rich  a  prize ; 
Of  one  whose  locks  were  sunny  brown, 

Whose  eyes  were  all  undimmed  by  tearsr 
Whose  heart  kept  time  to  sweetest  songs, 

A  rhythm  of  hope  that  drowned  the  fears. 

Whose  voice  had  learned  no  sad  refrain, 
Whose  heart  had  felt  no  shade  of  care, 

Whose  soul  had  known  no  blight  of  sin, 
Yet  lowly  dwelt  in  humble  prayer. 


■94  A    SONG    OF    VANISHED    YEARS. 

The  simple  maiden,  daisy-crowned, 
Dreamed  of  a  fadeless  wreath  of  bay, 

Longed  for  a  Poet's  fame,  and  sighed 
To  sing  some  grand  undying  lay. 

She  knew  not  of  the  thorny  paths 

O'er  which  her  weary  feet  must  climb 
To  reach  the  sun-crowned  home  of  thought, 

And  win  the  coronal  sublime. 
She  journeyed  on  with  patient  feet, 

O'er  many  a  long  and  weary  way, 
Stooping  to  gather  way-side  flowers 

Whose  sweetness  cheered  the  summer  day. 

Sometimes,  along  the  toilsome  road 

She  gladdened,  with  her  daisy  chain, 
Some  weary  pilgrim  bowed  with  grief, 

And  charmed  his  heart  away  from  pain. 
But  ever  as  she  gained  some  steep 

The  Temple  seemed  more  dim  and  far, 
And  fading  from  her  aching  eyes 

As  from  the  morn  recedes  the  star. 

Until  with  hope  too  long  deferred, 
And  many  an  idol  turned  to  clay, 

Her  heart  grew  sick  of  all  its  dream, 
Her  feet  grew  weary  of  the  way. 


A    SONG    OF    VANISHED    YEARS.  95 

And  holding  in  her  failing  hand 

The  flowers  she  gathered  for  a  crown, 

Her  bright  ambitions,  one  by  one 
A  sacrifice  she  laid  them  down. 

And  looking  back  across  the  years 

With  eyes  no  longer  filled  with  light, 
She  saw  once  more  the  meadows  green, 

The  cowslips  and  the  lilies  bright ; 
And  on  her  brow,  where  silver  threads 

Outnumbered  far  the  threads  of  brown, 
She  only  prayed  to  wear  once  more 

Her  childhood's  faith  and  daisy  crown. 

She  only  longed  to  sing  once  more, 

Some  childish  song  of  love  and  trust, 
Forgetting  all  the  golden  fruit 

Whose  taste  was  only  bitter  dust. 
Forgetting  the  loud  trumpet  blare 

Of  fame,  whose  echo  dies  away, 
She  learned  too  late,  that  valley  flowers 

Were  sweeter  than  the  crown  of  bay. 


TO  IRENE. 

PWEET  friend  beside  the  sunset  sea 
^     Whose  waters  kiss  the  golden  shore, 
My  thoughts  thro'  all  the  livelong  day 

Have  been  within  the  past  once  more. 
And  tho'  I  walk  'mid  winter  snows, 

While  thou  art  in  a  summer  clime, 
In  memory  I  have  lived  again 

The  sweetness  of  a  vanished  time. 

The  glory  of  a  day  in  June, 

A  long  and  perfect  summer  day — 
That  glided  out  to  meet  the  moon 

In  full  orbed  splendor  on  her  way  ; 
And  when  the  solemn  hush  of  eve 

Fell  round  us  like  the  soul  of  prayer, 
Your  voice  in  sweetest  cadence  broke 

The  stillness  of  the  summer  air. 

"  Ave  Marie  "  was  the  hymn 

You  sang,  while  daylight  fainter  grew, 
And  one  by  one  the  stars  came  out 

Like  sentries  on  the  field  of  blue ; 


TO    IRKNK.  97 

And  something  in  the  tender  strain 
Called  from  my  heart  a  flood  of  tears, 

And  stirred  the  depths  of  memory 
To  pulses  of  long  vanished  years. 

Sweet  friend  beside  the  sunset  sea, 

I  know  not  if  on  earth  again 
Thy  voice  of  song  shall  thrill  my  soul, 

And  charm  away  its  bitter  pain  ; 
But  if  there  be  a  summer  land 

Where  happy  days  go  on  forever, 
I  '11  clasp  once  more  thy  loving  hand 

Where  parting  words  no  more  shall  sever. 


RECOMPENSE. 

I    READ  to-day  a  sweet,  impassioned  sonnet, 
As  Shakespeare  ever  sang  his  chosen  love  ; 
And  while  my  brimming  eyes  dwelt  long  upon  it, 

My  wayward  thoughts  forbidden  paths  did  rove. 
I  wished  that  time  might  roll  his  chariot  backward, 

And  give  once  more  the  bright,  brief  days  of  youthr 
That  I  might  once  inspire  such  passionate  numbers 
And  prove  beyond  a  doubt  man's  love  and  truth. 

I  know  such  idle  dreaming  ill  becomes  me, 

Who  stand  midway  upon  the  slope  of  time  ; 
Bnt  flowers  have  blossomed  lately  in  my  pathway 

That  never  budded  in  my  youth's  brief  prime. 
If  life's  strange  book,  its  leaves  one-half  turned  over, 

Show  me  a  fairer  page  than  all  the  rest, 
I  know  not  how  the  mystery  to  discover — 

Shall  I  tear  out  the  leaf  that  seems  the  best  ? 

'T  is  said  that  when  the  lingering  blasts  of  winter 
Cut  off  the  spring  and  chill  the  early  flowers, 

The  summer  burns  in  still  more  gorgeous  splendor 
To  compensate  for  all  the  missing  hours  ; 


RECOMPENSE. 

That  if  the  day  in  rain  and  stormy  sobbing, 
Like  tears  of  passion,  wear  the  hours  away, 

The  sunset  glow  sets  all  the  earth  a-throbbing, 
And  joy  fills  up  the  measure  of  the  day. 

It  may  be  that  the  feet,  so  tired  of  climbing, 

Have  reached  the  station  looking  out  each  way, 
Where  I  may  hear  afar  the  joyful  chiming 

Of  bells  that  usher  in  the  perfect  day ; 
And  looking  back  o'er  days  of  sad  heart-aching, 

Count  all  my  griefs  as  nothing  to  the  gain, 
And  looking  forward,  where  the  light  is  breaking, 

Thank  God  that  pleasure  cometh  after  pain. 


99 


"  TRUSTING  IN  THEE." 

SOFTLY  above  the  silent  camp 
The  stars  shone  out  in  midnight  glory, 
Repeating  through  the  shining  spheres 
The  mi  sic  of  the  wondrous  story. 

And  in  my  heart  a  sweet  refrain 

Through  all  my  waking  hours  kept  ringing, 
The  anthem  of  a  soul  at  rest — 

A  soul  that  could  not  cease  from  singing. 

And  when  the  golden  morning  broke 
Above  the  tents  so  white  and  shining, 

My  heart  went  up  to  meet  the  day 
Beyond  the  reach  of  all  repining. 

And  with  the  dawn  my  waking  voice 
Rose  in  an  anthem  glad  and  free, 

The  song  I  sang  at  eventide, 

"  Still  I  am  trusting,  Lord,  in  thee." 


ROSEMARY. 


"  'T  is  for  remembrance." — Shakespeare. 


ONLY  a  little  green  and  bitter  spray 
Of  fading  leaves  I  give  into  thy  keeping — 
A  bunch  of  rosemary,  chilled  by  the  frost, 

And  withered  by  the  tears  my  eyes  are  weeping. 
"  'T  is  for  remembrance,  love  !  "  oh,  pray  remember 
Our  spring-time  wanderings  and  our  summer  days  ! 
When  you  were  all  my  world,  and  I  was  happy 
In  winning  from  the  world  my  meed  of  praise. 

There 's  not  a  path  which  we  have  walked  together 

But  seems  a  hallowed  spot  for  evermore  ; 
There  's  not  a  page  whereon  thine  eyes  have  rested, 

But  I  have  learned  its  lessons  o'er  and  o'er  ; 
There 's  not  an  hour,  however  dark  and  dreary, 

But  hope  revives  with  memories  of  thee. 
Then  take  this  rosemary,  't  is  for  remembrance, 

And  oh,  I  pray  you,  love,  remember  me  ! 

I  left  the  heart' s-ease  and  the  purple  pansy 
To  fade  and  wither  under  wintry  skies  ; 

I  could  not  wear  the  one  or  bear  the  other, 
So  much  of  thought  was  in  its  honest  eyes. 


102  ROSEMARY. 


But  from  my  garden  bed  this  little  spray 
I  rescue  from  the  pitiless  November, 

And  bid  you  wear  it  for  the  thought  it  brings — 
Wear  it  for  me,  and  oh,  I  pray,  remember ! 


THE  FORGOTTEN  SONG. 

DEAR  friend,  have  you  forgotten  the  day 
When  the  haze  hung  low  o'er  the  river, 
And  out  of  the  autumn  sunset  sky 
Came  flashes  of  crimson  and  purple  dye, 
Like  arrows  shot  from  a  golden  quiver  ? 

And  softly  over  the  fading  fields 

We  heard  the  partridge  calling, 
And  you  sang  the  sweetest  of  songs  to  me, 
As  we  stood  together  beneath  the  tree 

And  watched  the  red  leaves  falling. 

What  was  the  burden  of  that  sweet  song  ? 

I  wonder  if  you  remember. 
'T  was  a  song  of  a  love  no  change  could  move, 
Of  friendship  that  only  time  could  prove, 

The  same  from  May  to  December. 

The  leaves  came  down,  and  the  sky  grew  cold, 

And  the  song-birds  sought  their  cover, 
And  you  forgot  the  words  of  the  song 
When  the  winter  eves  grew  chill  and  long, 
And  the  summer  of  love  was  over. 


104  THE    FORGOTTEN    SONG. 

Oh,  golden  day  that  drifted  away 

With  the  haze  of  the  shining  river ! 
And  the  partridge  call,  and  sweetest  of  all, 
The  song,  as  I  watched  the  red  leaves  fall — 
I  shall  dream  of  the  day  forever. 


OLD  LETTERS. 

ONLY  a  bundle  of  yellow  letters, 
Faded,  wrinkled,  and  torn, 
Tied  with  a  ribbon  that  once  was  blue, 

In  the  time  of  my  girlhood  worn  ; 
And  yet  they  bring  before  my  gaze 

The  faces  of  long  ago, 
Some  that  lie  'neath  the  waving  grass, 
And  the  winter's  drifting  snow. 

And  one  by  one  the  days  come  back, 

When  I  opened  with  eager  hand, 
And  a  throbbing  heart  that  was  full  of  joy, 

To  hear  from  a  distant  land. 
They  breathed  of  friendship,  true  and  warm, 

And  a  love  that  could  not  change  ; 
I  read  them  now  like  one  in  a  dream, 

They  seem  so  old  and  strange. 

It  seems  so  very  long  ago, 

Since  I  was  the  happy  girl, 
Who  sent  in  my  letters  sweet  wild  flowers 

And  sometimes  a  glossy  curl. 


I06  OLD    LETTERS. 

And  oft  in  the  forest  green  and  wide, 
'Neath  some  broad  spreading  tree, 

With  the  song  of  the  wild  bird  overhead, 
I  carolled  as  wild  and  free. 

Now  I  can  trace  a  silver  thread 

In  the  hair  that  was  once  so  brown, 
And  the  dear  old  forest  seems  so  far 

From  the  heart  of  the  busy  town. 
The  bird  is  caged  that  sings  to  me  now, 

And  beats  his  prisoned  wings  ; 
There  seems  a  sad  and  weary  plaint, 

In  every  song  that  he  sings. 
And  oft,  when  wearied  with  many  cares, 

To  my  soul  I  whisper  low, 
Would  that  the  bird  and  I  were  free, 

To  fly  where  the  winds  might  blow. 


LIFE'S  AUTUMN. 

NOT  for  pale  cheeks  and  fading  hair 
Do  love's  delicious  roses  grow, 
Nor  sudden  raptures  wake  die  pulse 

Whose  tides  have  ceased  to  ebb  and  flow. 
The  sad,  cold  heights  of  middle  age 

Are  barren  of  all  wild  delights, 
The  days  seem  only  whitely  set 

To  mark  a  place  between  the  nights. 
Slow  pulses  tuned  to  dropping  tears, 

Like  autumn  rains  that  fall  so  chill, 
When  all  the  summer  flowers  are  dead 

And  field  and  forest  brown  and  still. 

Some  sweet  regrets  for  vanished  youth, 

Some  fragrant  leaves,  slow  pressed  by  pain, 
We  treasure  from  the  wasted  time 

Whose  sands  we  may  not  turn  again. 
Behind  us,  lying  dim  and  fair, 

The  valley  of  our  youth  appears, 
Warm  with  the  light  of  memory, 

Seen  thro'  the  sad,  regretful  tears. 


108  life's  autumn. 

Before  us,  stretching  chill  and  far, 

The  future,  dim  and  undefined, 
Lies  like  the  somber  shadow-side 

Of  all  the  sunshine  left  behind. 
Beside  the  lonely,  fireless  hearth 

We  watch  the  ashes,  cold  and  gray, 
Whose  happy  fires  burned  dim  and  low, 

And  faded  with  the  yesterday. 


ONE  DAY  IN  MAY. 

DIM  was  the  woodland  and  fair  was  the  weather, 
And  blue  were  the  skies  of  the  beautiful  May, 
When  laughing  and  singing  we  wandered  together 

With  hearts  attuned  to  the  happy  day. 
We  sought  the  shade  where  the  birds  were  singing 

And  busily  building  the  summer  nest, 
Where  the  branches,  ever  swaying  and  swinging, 
Should  rock  the  twittering  brood  to  rest. 

The  leaves  of  the  forest  were  green  and  tender, 

The  grass  was  velvet  under  our  feet, 
And  tropical  ferns  in  graceful  splendor 

Drooped  over  violets  dewy  and  sweet. 
And  the  brook,  released  from  its  wintry  prison, 

Sang  o'er  the  pebbles  and  laughed  along  ; 
And  the  meadow-lilies,  newly  risen, 

Drank  in  the  joy  of  the  happy  song. 

The  earth  was  a  psalm  of  love  and  beauty, 

Because  of  the  birds  and  the  budding  flowers ; 

And  it  seemed  to  us  but  a  happy  duty 
To  linger  there  in  the  golden  hours. 


IIO  ONE    DAY    IN    MAY. 

And  never  till  life  and  its  dreams  are  over, 
And  the  sun  has  set  on  my  latest  day, 

Shall  fade  from  my  heart  the  face  of  my  lover, 
Or  the  words  that  he  said,  that  day  in  May. 


A  YEAR  AND  A  DAY 


M 


Y  beautiful  May 

'T  is  a  year  and  a  day 
Since  my  love  and  I  went  out  together, 
With  hearts  as  light 
As  the  day  was  bright, 
And  hand  in  hand  in  the  sweet  spring  weather. 

We  lingered  over 

The  scented  clover 
And  watched  the  barge  on  the  lazy  stream, 

Till  the  golden  day 

Had  melted  away 
And  left  us  dreaming  a  blissful  dream. 

A  year  and  a  day 

Since  the  morn  in  May 
When  the  apple-blossoms  in  snowy  shower 

Fell  like  a  rain 

In  the  sunny  lane, 
Leaving  the  fruit  instead  of  the  flower. 

My  tears  fall  fast 
For  the  vanished  past, 


112  A   .YEAR    AND    A    DAY. 

For  blossom  and  fruit  that  fell  together, 

And  the  May-day  dream 

Like  the  fleeting  gleam 
Of  a  sunny  sky  in  April  weather. 

I  shall  walk  no  more 

By  the  river's  shore 
In  the  golden  glow  of  the  May's  completeness, 

For  my  love  is  dead, 

And  over  his  head 
I  will  drop  the  flowers  that  he  loved  for  sweetness. 

Violets  blue 

That  are  tender  and  true, 
Buds  of  lilies  and  snowy  daisies, 

And  pansies  rare 

Beyond  all  compare 
For  the  thoughts  they  bring  of  his  once  sweet  praises. 


"  UNDER  THE  MISTLETOE." 

WILL  you  take  the  hand  that  I  offer 
In  fullest  friendship  to-day  ? 
Letting  "  the  dead  past  bury  its  dead," 

Hiding  the  ashes  away, 
Looking  beyond  the  changes 

That  compass  our  years  below, 
Will  you  pledge  your  faith  for  eternity 
"  Under  the  mistletoe?" 

The  years  of  time  are  too  fleeting, 

The  pulses  of  life  too  fast ; 
The  roses  wither  so  swiftly, 

The  summers  too  soon  are  past: 
And  human  words  are  but  feeble 

To  clothe  deep  feelings  of  love 
As  fathomless  as  the  ocean  deeps, 

As  true  as  the  stars  above. 

Nay,  doubt  not  the  motive  or  meaning, 
Life's  sorrows  have  melted  the  dross  ; 

The  friendship  I  give  is  purest  gold 
Won  from  its  baser  loss. 


114  "under  the  mistletoe." 

Pearls  from  a  perilous  diving 
Shine  with  no  purer  glow 

Than  the  faith  I  offer  you  here  to-day, 
"  Under  the  mistletoe." 

Will  you  take  the  hand  that  I  offer, 

Holding  it  firm  and  fast, 
Veiling  the  faults  and  the  follies 

That  dimmed  the  days  of  the  past? 
Let  me  not  wait  for  an  answer 

For  a  hope  deferred  is  woe  ; 
But  give  me  a  loving  greeting 

"  Under  the  mistletoe." 


THE  LETTER. 

BREAK  into  beautiful  blossoms 
O  buds  of  the  sunny  May, 
And  sing,  my  robin  and  bluebird, 

Your  sweetest  carol  to-day — 
For  my  love  has  written  a  letter, 
And  the  world  is  all  in  tune — 
He  is  coming  along  with  the  roses 
In  the  fairest  days  of  June. 

I  am  counting  the  days  between  us — 

I  am  counting  the  moments  and  hours, 
Telling  my  beads,  like  a  solemn  nun, 

On  a  rosary  of  flowers  ; 
For  he  said,  when  the  buds  of  the  roses 

Are  flushing  in  royal  red, 
He  is  coming  to  claim  a  promise. 

(I  wonder  what  I  have  said.) 

Break  into  songs  and  blossoms, 

O  birds  and  buds  of  spring ; 
Lilies,  scatter  your  fragrance, 

And  sweetest  song-birds,  sing  ; 


u6 


THE    LETTER. 


And  skies,  drop  golden  sunshine 
On  die  beautiful  days  of  June, 

For  my  love  is  coming  to  see  me, 
And  the  world  is  all  in  tune. 


DECORATION  ODE. 

Air— America. 

WITH  reverent  steps  we  come 
To  gather  'round  their  tomb, 
The  honored  brave ! 
Those  whom  we  loved  so  well 
Who  nobly  fought  and  fell, 
Foul  treason's  strife  to  quell, 
Our  land  to  save. 

Bright  wreaths  and  flowers  we  bring, 
Fair  offerings  of  the  spring, 

Their  graves  to  strew, 
While  silent  tear-drops  well 
From  hearts  that  throb  and  swell, 
..As  fame  their  deeds  shall  tell, 

Those  souls  so  true. 

Fair  children  clothed  in  white, 
Emblems  of  angels  bright, 

Are  hither  led ! 
And  still,  from  year  to  year, 
Shall  pilgrims  journey  here, 
And  many  a  holy  tear 

Shall  here  be  shed. 


n8 


DECORATION    ODE. 


Oh  God  !  to  Thee  we  raise 
Our  songs  of  highest  praise 

For  blessings  past ! 
Make  us  still  more  revere 
Their  names  who  slumber  here, 
And  guard  our  land  so  dear, 

While  time  shall  last ! 


THE  LOST  SHIP. 

OVER  the  roar  of  the  signal  gun 
The  surging  billows  swept ; 
Over  the  peaceful  dreaming  forms 

The  treacherous  waters  crept ; 
And  the  midnight  sky,  like  a  funeral  pall, 

Hung  low  o'er  the  sinking  ship, 
And  the  cry  of  terror,  "We're  lost,  we're  lost! 
Went  trembling  from  lip  to  lip. 

Lost  in  the  depths  of  the  sounding  sea, 

So  near  to  the  fair  green  shore, — 
Whelmed  'neath  the  main's  immensity, 

To  return — ah,  never  more  ! 
Lost  while  dreaming  of"  home,  sweet  home," 

And  the  loved  ones  gathered  there, 
With  never  a  kiss  of  fond  farewell 

Nor  time  for  a  dying  prayer. 

Lost  in  the  depths  of  the  moaning  sea. 

Lover  and  husband  and  friend, 
Kindred  seeking  a  free-born  shore, 

Wanderer  his  journey  to  end  ; 


120 


THE    LOST    SHIP. 


And  ever  the  sorrowing  cry  goes  up 
From  hearts  whence  hope  has  fled, 

"  I  shall  see  the  face  that  I  loved  no  more 
Till  the  Sea  gives  up  its  dead." 


PANSIES. 

PANSY,  born  in  the  royal  purple, 
Linked  by  a  subtle  chain  to  thought, 
Read  me  the  spell  of  the  mystic  meaning 
Deep  in  your  chalice  of  gold  inwrought. 

Ages  ago  you  were  not  a  flower, 
Such  as  I  hold  in  my  hand  to-night, 

But  a  soul  a-thrill  to  love's  sweet  power, 
Trembling  under  the  spell  of  its  might. 

You  saw  how  faithless  was  human  passion, 
Dew  in  the  sunlight  as  swiftly  fled, 

And  you  left  the  guise  of  your  earthly  prison 
And  into  the  soul  of  the  pansy  sped. 

Pansy,  born  in  the  royal  purple, 
Say,  have  I  read  your  story  aright  ? 

What  do  you  read  in  me  that  you  tremble — 
Hiding  away  in  sudden  fright  ? 

Saw  you,  under  my  calm-eyed  gazing, 
Something  I've  hidden  from  all  beside? 

Keep  my  secret,  O  thoughtful  flower — 
Tell  not  the  daisy  close  by  your  side. 


122  PANSIES. 

Tell  not  the  rose  that  is  bending  to  listen, 
Tell  not  the  passion  flower  over  your  head, 

That  my  heart  is  trembling  to  love's  sweet  music  ; 
Oh  pansy,  tell  not  a  word  that  I've  said. 

Fold  my  secret  close  in  your  bosom, 

You  who  have  learned  that  love  is  vain, 

And  in  your  crucible,  deep  and  golden, 
Charm  my  heart  from  its  bitter  pain. 


"THE  BEAUTIFUL  SNOW." 

"\  T  THAT  we  know  of  the  beautiful  snow 
*  »    This  season,  would  fill  a  volume  or  so. 

Pelting  and  melting,  on  pavement  and  sill ; 

Blowing  thro'  crannies,  ghostly  and  chill  ; 

Tracked  thro'  the  house  on  the  school-boy's  boot — 

Mixed  with  a  portion  of  inkv  soot ; 

Keeping  the  yard  and  house  in  a  muss, 

And  stirring  up  many  a  family  fuss. 

Oh,  the  snow,  the  terrible  snow, 
Won't  we  rejoice  when  we  see  it  go  ! 

Who  cares  a  fig  who  first  wrote  the  poem  ? 
"  Watson  or  Faxon,"  we  do  n't  want  to  know  him  ; 
He  never  stood  with  a  brandishing  broom, 
Brushing  out  snow  that  was  tracked  in  the  room. 
He  never  had  little  boys  come  from  school, 
Or  he  never  had  written  himself  such  a  fool ; 
Praising  and  lauding  the  flakes  as  they  fell, 
Helping  the  gutters  and  rivers  to  swell. 
Oh,  the  snow,  the  terrible  snow, 
Won't  we  rejoice  when  we  see  it  go  ! 


A  LOST  DAY. 

ALL  day  I  heard  the  merry  Christmas  bells 
Throbbing  upon  the  chill  and  wintry  air, 
The  while,  with  folded  hands  and  silent  lips, 

My  heart  was  heavy  with  unanswered  prayer. 
All  day  beside  my  casement,  mute  and  still, 

I  waited  with  an  eager,  list'ning  ear — 
Waited  I  knew  not  what,  as  one  will  wait 
The  coming  of  a  step  they  know  is  near. 

And  when  the  day  waned  into  purple  eve, 

And  shadows  chill  were  dropping  down  to  earth, 
I  knew  the  happy  day  was  lost  to  me — 

The  day  that  ushered  in  the  Saviour's  birth. 
I  heard  the  children  shouting  at  their  play, 

Sweet  voiced  and  happy.     How  it  mocked  my  grief 
To  hear  a  laugh  from  hearts  that  never  ached, 

Knowing  mine  own  could  never  find  relief! 

-I  watched  the  sun,  slow  sinking  in  the  west, 

With  eyes  that  seemed  not  mine,  so  dull  were  they, 
And  pitied  the  dead  heart  within  my  breast, 
So  passionless  and  void  of  life  it  lay. 


A    LOST    DAY.  1 25 

I  thought  how  once  I  read  a  foolish  tale 
•     Of  sorcerer  dread  who  turned  a  heart  to  stone, 
And  never  more,  thro'  weight  of  human  grief, 

Anguish  or  pain,  it  echoed  back  a  moan. 
I  wondered  if  some  strange  magician  art 

Could  deaden  something  of  the  pain  I  bore, 
Or  if  some  happy  masquer  could  not  change 

My  features  to  the  smile  that  once  they  wore. 

Again  I  heard  the  melody  of  bells, 

And  saw  the  light  along  the  city  street ; 
I  watched  the  merry  groups  that  met  and  passed, 

In  happy  homes  with  happy  hearts  to  meet. 
I  drew  the  curtain  of  my  window  close, 

Losing  the  world,  as  I  had  lost  the  day, 
Sick  unto  death  because  my  heart's  one  prayer 

Fate  answered  in  its  own  unfeeling  wav. 


DEAR  EYES. 

DEAR  eyes,  if  you  should  chance  to  fall 
Upon  this  page  I  write  to-day, 
I  wonder  if  within  your  heart 
Would  spring  a  sudden,  bitter  smart, 
Remembering  all  you  used  to  say. 

I  wonder  if  no  keen  regret 

For  all  the  wealth  of  vanished  hours, 
Would  stir  your  pulse  to  swifter  beat, 
Recalling  all  the  days  so  sweet, 

The  happier  days  that  once  were  ours. 

Dear  eyes,  that  learned  a  cruel  look — 
Cold  heart,  that  turned  another  way, 

You  never  knew  the  wealth  you  lost, 

Nor  what  to  me  the  losing  cost, 
Your  words  were  only  idle  play. 

Cold  eyes,  that  once  could  thrill  my  heart 
With  the  swift  lightning  of  their  blue, 
No  more  I  feel  the  tender  lance, 
No  more  I  tremble  at  their  glance, 
The  tale  they  told  me  was  not  true. 


UNDER  THE  ELM. 

SING  to  me,  gentle  summer  wind, 
Of  the  beautiful  days  I  lost, 
Ere  the  track  of  my  shining  angel 

By  sin  was  ever  crossed. 
Sing  of  the  far-off  summers, 

And  woo  me  back  to  the  hours 
When  my  heart  reflected  the  sunlight, 
And  tears  were  as  April  showers. 

I  lie  in  the  elm's  broad  shadow, 

And  see  through  the  branches  green 
A  glimpse  of  the  sky  above  me, 

A  blue  and  silvery  sheen  ; 
I  catch  the  low,  sweet  warble 

Of  a  bird  that  sings  a-near, 
A  tremulous  song  of  happy  love 

With  never  a  note  of  fear. 

The  air  is  all  a-tremble 

With  songs  of  a  thousand  things, 
And  glancing  athwart  the  sunlight 

I  see  their  shining  wings. 


128  UNDER    THE    ELM. 

And  over  the  fragrant  meadow, 

On  the  fitful  breezes  borne, 
There  floats  to  my  ear  a  thrilling  note 

Blown  out  from  a  distant  horn. 

Against  my  trailing  garments 

The  beautiful  grasses  lean, 
And  down  by  the  elm  roots'  tangle 

The  mosses  are  cool  and  green  ; 
And  a  rapturous  song  of  thanksgiving 

Wells  up  from  my  heart's  deep  core, 
To  the  Giver  of  song  and  sunshine 

And  summer's  bountiful  store. 

My  soul  is  sailing  away  to-day 

On  a  silvery  summer  sea  ; 
The  isles  of  hope  that  were  dim  with  mist 

Seem  fairer  and  nearer  to  me. 
I  wonder  if,  like  the  rosy  sky, 

Whose  color  is  turning  to  grav, 
My  visions  will  lose  their  golden  light 

As  night  o'ershadows  the  day. 


SOLDIERS'  GRAVES. 

T  T  THEN  the  sweet  May  comes  smiling 

*  *    Up  the  southern  slopes,  and  dropping 
At  her  feet  the  daisy  stars,  to  twinkle 
In  the  grass,  as  planets  in  the  blue  above  ; 
When  lilacs  white  and  purple  scent 
The  air,  and  tulips  flame  along  the 
Borders  gay  like  banners  of  some  fairy 
Host ;  and  when  the  orchards  are 
In  bridal  bloom,  and  every  breath 
Of  the  young  year  shakes  down 
A  silvery  rain  of  scented  leaves 
Upon  the  lap  of  the  dear  mother 
Earth,  who  folds  away  the  snowy 
Veil,  content  to  know  that  under 
The  white  fragrance  of  the  laden 
Bough  was  born  the  promise  of  the 
Perfect  fruit : 

When  all  the  earth  is 
Set  to  cadences  of  sweetest  harmony, 
And  praise  goes  up  from  every  heart 


I30  SOLDIERS     GRAVES. 

In  soundless  songs  of  full  thanksgiving, 
It  is  but  meet,  in  this  most  radiant 
Time,  to  gather  from  earth's  green 
Bosom  the  flowers  she  paints  in 
Many-colored  dyes,  each  tint  the 
Sweet  reflection  of  some  vanished 
Joy  ;  and  in  their  full  luxuriance 
Offer  them,  a  fragrant  sacrifice,  and 
Tender  tribute  to  the  honored  dead. 


Above  their  dreamless  slumber,  in 
The  low  tents  where  summer  winds 
Stir  not  the  heavy  curtains,  and  at 
Whose  doors  the  snowy  symbol  of  a 
Truce  is  set,  we  walk  with  reverent 
Tread.     No  more  the  loud  alarm  or 
Bugle  call  shall  rouse  them  to 
The  charge.     No  trumpet  blast, 
Or  clash  of  cymbals  loud,  or 
Recreant  banner  flying  to  the  breeze, 
Shall  stir  again  the  silent  pulses 
Of  the  dead  who  rest  from  life's 
Great  battle.     Across  the  breasts 
Where  surging  tides  of  passion  and 
Of  wild  ambition  swept  and 
Quickened  the  dull  heart-throbs 


SOLDIERS     GRAVES.  131 

To  a  martial  meter,  lie  white  and 
Nerveless  hands,  shorn  of  their  cunning 
And  their  power.     Young  hands,  whose 
Grasp  upon  the  flashing  steel 
Was  loosened  by  a  mightier  one  than 
Fame.     Young  brows  that  went 
Unlaureled  to  the  grave,  heroes 
Uncrowned,  ungarlanded,  and 
Nameless,  to  find  the  guerdon  in 
The  great  hereafter,  that  waits  for 
Those  who  go  to  meet  their  death  for 
Some  great  cause. 

With  reverent  step  we  strew 
The  white  and  crimson  roses  to  symbolize 
The  stripes  of  the  dear  flag  for  which 
They  fell,  and  rare  blue  violets  for  the 
Starry  field  of  the  bright  banner  they 
Upbore  mid  smoke  and  carnage  ; 
White  lilies  in  all  purity  for  the  fair 
Dawn  of  peace  for  which  they  gave 
Their  brave  young  lives  to  martyrdom 
And  death — while  sweetest  strains 
Of  melody  float  out  upon  the  golden 
Air  of  spring-time  in  dirges  for  the 
Dead.     Somewhere  within  the  quarry's 
Heart  rests  the  white  stone  that  future 


132 


soldiers'  graves. 


Ages  shall  rear  above  their  widely  scattered 
Graves ;  meanwhile  we  gem  the  sod 
With  tears,  and  leave  our  fading 
Offering  to  wither  in  silent  incense 
Above  the  nation's  honored  dead. 


FADED  FLOWERS. 

YOU  ask  me  why  I  keep  these  faded  flowers, 
When  all  the  earth  is  budding  into  bloom, 
And  why  with  folded  hands  I  sit  alone, 

Shutting  the  sunlight  from  my  quiet  room  ? 
I  am  too  tired  to  gather,  if  I  would, 

The  sweet  wild  flowers  and  the  budding  rose, 
Tired  of  the  sunshine  and  the  glaring  light. 
What  you  deem  a  weariness,  is  sweet  repose. 

I  know  my  flowers  are  only  withered  leaves, 

And  yet  a  subtle  fragrance  lingers  there  ; 
A  hallowed  something,  linked  to  brighter  days — 

A  charm  no  freshly  gathered  bud  can  wear. 
You  say  the  orchard  boughs  are  sweetly  flushing, 

And  royal  pansies  fleck  the  borders  gay, 
And  summer  sends  across  the  sunny  hilltops 

Her  kisses  on  the  fragrant  breath  of  May. 

Ah  me  !  I  know  the  white  and  purple  lilacs, 
And  where  the  lilies  of  the  valley  grow, 

Where  tender  hyacinth  and  dainty  crocus 
First  lift  their  heads  above  the  winter  snow  ; 


134  FADED   FLOWERS. 

I  know  how  fair  the  hedges  are  unfolding, 

And  how  the  orchards  scatter  their  sweet  rain, 

And  something,  in  the  thought  of  all  their  beauty, 
Comes  o'er  me  with  a  throb  akin  to  pain. 

And  yet  they  can  not  hold  the  tender  meaning 

That  once  I  read  in  these  poor  faded  flowers  ; 
They  whisper  not,  in  all  their  fragrant  breathing, 

Of  happy  days  and  swiftly  vanished  hours. 
Go  with  young  hands  and  gather  your  fresh  roses, 

Hallowing  each  garland  with  your  heart's  best  thought, 
Anon  you  '11  find  amid  the  withered  treasures  ; 

A  mystic  meaning,  wondrously  inwrought. 


CAPTAIN  JOE. 

COMRADES  of  the  march  and  camp-fire, 
And  the  thrilling  battle-call, 
Sitting  in  the  waning  daylight, 

I  've  been  thinking  of  you  all. 
Fancy  has  been  strangely  roaming, 
In  a  dim  and  backward  flight, 
And  again  the  57th  has  been  marshaled  for  the  fight. 

I  can  not  tell  what  trifle  set  my  fancy  thus  at  play ; 
Perhaps  'twas  hearing  mention  made  of  decoration  day. 

But  somehow,  in  the  tvvilight  here, 
Strange  visions  come  and  go, 

And  one  that  lingers  longest, 
Is  the  form  of  Captain  Joe. 

I  need  not  call  him  to  your  minds, 

You  never  have  forgot 
The  stormy  fight  at  Mission  Ridge, 

Nor  yet  the  sacred  spot 
Under  the  heights  of  Kenesaw, 

Where  our  brave  comrade  fell, 
Pierced  through  the  heart  while  leading  on 

The  men  he  loved  so  well. 


136  CAPTAIN   JOE. 

Nor  how  a  heavy  sadness 

We  had  never  known  before, 
Fell  on  our  stricken  regiment — 

Reached  through  our  army  corps. 

For  often  on  the  toilsome  march, 

O'er  rough  and  dusty  road , 
Some  comrade,  fainting  by  the  way, 

Has  felt  the  heavy  load 
Borne  from  his  weary  shoulders 

By  the  arms  so  strong  and  brave, 
That  scorned  promotion  from  the  ranks 

He  nobly  died  to  save. 

Then,  comrades  of  the  old  brigade, 

As  summers  come  and  go, 
Remembering  all  the  marches 

Thro'  the  heat  and  thro'  the  snow, 
We'll  strew  fair  flowers  above  their  graves, 

Remembering  Captain  Joe. 


TO  ONE  AFAR. 

ALL  the  long  bright  summer  day, 
Sweetest  friend,  I  've  thought  of  thee- 
I  upon  the  fair  green  earth, 

Thou  upon  the  broad  blue  sea. 
I  have  felt  the  wondrous  power, 
Stronger  far  than  cable  chain, 
That  doth  bind  our  spirits  still, 

Though  between  us  flows  the  main. 

Though  our  paths  lie  far  apart, 

As  it  were  from  pole  to  pole, 
Naught  can  break  the  golden  chain 

Binding  kindred  soul  to  soul. 
There  are  those  with  whom  we  walk 

In  our  daily  joy  or  care, 
Who  are  yet  so  far  away 

That  they  do  not  hear  our  prayer. 

When  thy  waiting  feet  shall  press 
Other  shores,  'neath  other  skies, 

Would  that  I  were  with  thee  then , 
To  enjoy  the  sweet  surprise. 


I38  TO    ONE    AFAR. 

When  some  glorious  work  of  art 
Thrills  thee  with  its  magic  power, 

Think  of  one  whose  life-long  dream 
Still  hath  been  of  such  an  hour. 

And  if  thou  should'st  idly  stray 

Where  the  Avon  winds  along, 
With  thy  soul  enwrapped  in  thought 

Of  the  glorious  King  of  Song, 
Send  some  sweet  remembrance  back, 

Though  it  be  a  withered  flower  ; 
I  shall  know  that  memory  turned 

Homeward  in  that  thoughtful  hour. 
And  I  promise  thee,  dear  friend, 

Wheresoe'er  thy  feet  may  stray, 
For  their  swift  and  sure  return 

I  shall  ever  hope  and  pray. 


MYSTERY. 

BECAUSE  the  sweet  June  sunshine  flecked  the  field, 
And  summer  winds  in  billowing  ripples  ran 
Along  the  reedy  margin  of  the  stream, 

In  mournful  music,  like  a  dirge  for  Pan  ; 
Because  a  thousand  changeful  colors  swept 

The  sky,  that  mirrored  all  the  sunset  glow, 
My  thoughts  went  backward  to  a  by-gone  day, 
In  sweetest  memories  of  long  ago. 

Oh  wondrous  mystery  of  human  life, 

So  strangely  linked  by  trifles  to  the  past ! 
A  subtle  chord  that  trembles  at  a  touch, 

As  if  't  were  shaken  by  the  stormy  blast. 
It  must  be  that  some  secret  golden  thread, 

Invisible  to  our  material  sight, 
Unites  us  to  the  ones  whom  we  have  loved, 

Transmitting  messages  in  flashes  bright. 

And  I  have  read  upon  the  sky  to-day, 

And  in  the  flashing  of  the  rippling  stream, 

As  sweet  a  message,  and  as  true  a  sound, 
As  ever  came  to  me  in  happiest  dream. 


I4O  MYSTERY. 

And  so  it  was — a  voice  once  dear  to  me 
Came  back  to-day  upon  the  summer  air, 

And  broke  the  golden  silence  of  my  dream, 
By  silver  words  as  softly  tuned  as  prayer. 

It  whispered,  "  Tho'  the  summer  roses  fade, 

And  boundless  years  divide  thy  life  from  mine, 
My  chainless  thought  will  follow,  and  await     • 

The  some  time  when  my  love  shall  be  divine." 
The  flash  of  thought,  invisible  to  me, 

Is  all  a  mystery  I  may  not  know, 
But  with  its  voiceless  message  it  has  turned 

The  tide  of  memory  to  the  long  ago. 


WHAT  THE  DAISY  TOLD  ME. 

I    WALKED  to-day  in  the  meadow 
With  a  sad  and  doubting  heart ; 
I  gathered  the  sweet  wild  flowers, 
And  idly  pulled  them  apart. 

For  I  heard  no  news  from  my  lover, 
And  my  tears  fell  thick  and  fast, 

As  I  lived  again  in  memory 
The  happy  days  of  the  past. 

And  a  bitter  doubt  kept  whispering 
These  words  in  my  startled  ear  : 

"  He  is  weary  of  love's  sweet  bondage  ; 
He  has  worn  it  less  than  a  year." 

I  gathered  a  snow-white  daisy, 
And  I  thought  of  Marguerite, 

And  I  said  it  shall  be  an  omen, 

While  I  heard  my  heart's  quick  beat, 

As  out  of  my  trembling  fingers 

I  let  the  white  leaves  fall, 
And  said,  "  He  loves  me  dearly," 

"  He  loves  me  not  at  all." 


142  WHAT    THE    DAISY    TOLD    ME. 

But  the  blood  rushed  up  in  a  crimson  tide 
From  my  heart  to  my  burning  cheek, 

And  filled  my  soul  with  a  tender  joy 
Too  sweet  for  my  tongue  to  speak. 

For  the  daisy  told  me  he  loved  me, 
And  raising  my  happy  eyes, 

I  met  the  face  of  my  lover, 
Who  came  as  a  glad  surprise. 

Bloom  on,  my  beautiful  daisy, 
With  messages  sad  and  sweet ; 

You  held  a  happy  omen  for  me, 
And  my  joy  is  all  complete. 


THE  VALEDICTORY. 

J'  I  n  WAS  a  handsome  Baccalaureate, 

JL        With  his  parchment  in  his  hand, 
And  he  briskly  stepped  on  the  platform, 

And  took  his  place  at  the  stand  ; 
And  he  swept  the  sea  of  faces 

With  a  glance  of  his  fearless  eye, 
And  a  look  that  was  full  of  triumph, 

And  courage  to  do  or  die. 

There  were  aunts,  and  uncles,  and  cousins, 

Relations  full  half-a-score — 
All  good,  old-fashioned  people 

Who  considered  "  larnin'  a  bore  ;" 
And  friends  who  were  better  posted 

On  the  needs  of  the  rushing  times, 
Who  knew  that  knowledge  is  power, 

And  ignorance  one  of  the  crimes. 

Then  the  valedictory  opened  : 

"  Obscura  per  obscurius," 
"  Ore  rotundo,"  was  his  style, 

And  momently  grew  more  furious. 


144  THE  VALEDICTORY. 

"  Qui  non  proficit  deficit," 

Was  the  young  man's  rallying-cry  ; 

And  he  proved  that  all  were  turtles 
Who  did  n't  know  how  to  fly. 

He  threw  up  a  "  pons  asinorum  " 

Of  an  English  sentence  or  two, 
By  way  of  helping  his  hearers 

To  sit  and  hear  him  through  ; 
But  he  hurled  in  Greek  and  Latin,' 

And  he  did  it  with  such  force 
That  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes 

His  voice  grew  weak  and  hoarse. 

But  on  to  the  end  of  the  chapter, 

This  terrible  youth  went  in, 
Raking  up  the  dead  languages 

In  a  way  that  seemed  a  sin, 
Till  his  voice  grew  weak  and  weaker, 

In  wild,  incoherent  mutter  ; 
"  Hoc  tempore,"  they  seized  him, 

And  bore  him  home  on  a  shutter. 

A  sad  and  terrible  warning 

To  quoters  of  Greek  and  Latin, 

The  young  man  died,  and  the  hearers  scarce 
Could  get  from  the  seats  they  sat  in. 


THE    VALEDICTORY.  1 45 

The  LL.  D.'s  and  D.  C.  L.'s, 

A.  B.'s  and  the  A.  S.  S.'es, 
Got  up  an  elaborate  funeral 

To  add  to  his  friends'  distresses. 
They  covered  his  grave  with  old  Greek  "  roots," 

And  carved  on  a  stone  of  granite, 
"  Vir  sapit  qui  paucit  loquitur," 

And  the  mourners  had  to  "  stan'  it." 


A  SAD  STORY. 

IT  's  about  an  ancient  cannibal  man, 
Who  came  from  an  island  near  Japan, 
A  cannibal  man  who  was  tough  and  old 
When  Barnum  bought  him  and  paid  in  gold  ; 
And  whether  the  man  or  Barnum  was  sold, 
You  will  learn  in  this  solemn  story. 

His  teeth  were  sharp  as  the  teeth  of  a  saw, 
And  he  had  two  rows  in  the  lower  jaw 
Filed  and  polished,  and  ready  for  use 
On  any  customer  full  of  juice, 
Or  the  first  fine  baby  that  lay  around  loose, 
For  babies  were  all  his  glory. 

A  sad  mistake  for  a  cannibal  band 
To  come  to  an  almost  babyless  land, 
For  babies  are  strangely  out  of  style  ; 
You  may  travel  the  country  many  a  mile 
Without  the  light  of  a  baby  smile, 
Unless  with  the  Dutch  and  Irish. 


A    SAD    STORY.  1 47 

But  Barnum  kept  his  man  in  a  cage, 
Though  he  felt  quite  sure,  at  the  fellow's  age, 
That  his  cannibalistic  feats  were  done, 
Unless  he  should  eat  a  man  for  fun  ; 
And  once  on  the  sly  he  fed  him  one, 
Which  was  n't  a  wise  proceeding. 

For  having  tasted  a  white  man's  meat, 
He  was  always  ready  to  kill  and  eat, 
And  he  looked  with  longing  at  rosy  girls 
Who  came  to  the  show  in  shining  curls, 
With  cheeks  like  peaches  and  teeth  like  pearls, 
And  he  wondered  how  they  tasted. 

It  happened  once,  when  the  flesh  was  weak, 
That  he  snatched  a  bite  from  a  rosy  cheek. 
When  Barnum  entered  the  cage  to  beat  him, 
The  cannibal  thought  he  had  come  to  treat  him, 
And  so  straightway  began  to  eat  him, 
Without  even  salt  or  pepper. 

And  though  he  was  stringy  and  awful  tough, 
For  a  good  square  meal  he  proved  enough. 
Alas  !  alack  !  what  a  terrible  omen  ! 
It  teaches  to  women  as  well  as  to  showmen, 
That  whether  cannibal,  Greek,  or  Roman, 
Be  he  ever  so  old,  you  can 't  trust  no  man. 


"UJIJI." 

THE  shades  of  night  were  falling  fast, 
When  through  an  African  village  passed 
A  man  whose  hair  was  white  as  snow, 
Repeating  in  accents  solemn  and  slow — 

"  Ujiji." 

His  back  was  bent  with  the  burden  of  years, 
His  cheeks  were  furrowed  by  time  and  tears ; 
But  still  he  marched  with  a  solemn  tread, 
And  this  was  the  only  word  he  said — 

"Ujiji." 

Vainly  his  friends  implored  him  to  cease, 
Return  to  his  home  and  rest  in  peace  ; 
But  he  said  that  test  was  not  his  style, 
And  he  wanted  to  find  the  source  of  the  Nile — 

"  Ujiji." 

"  Oh,  stay  with  me,"  said  a  Zemba  chief; 
"  I  will  give  you  a  wife  and  plenty  of  beef." 
He  wept  as  he  sadly  shook  his  head, 
And  this  dreadful  word  was  all  he  said — 

"  Ujiji." 


"  ujiji"  149 

An  African  princess,  smooth  and  black, 
Without  any  bustle  or  useless  clack, 
Besought  him  to  tarry,  with  tender  smile  ; 
But  the  siren  tongue  could  not  beguile 

"  Ujiji." 

He  saw  in  the  huts  as  he  passed  by, 
The  cooks  preparing  to  stew  and  fry, 
And  a  hungry  look  came  over  his  face  ; 
But  he  said  as  he  quickened  his  lagging  pace — 

"  Ujiji." 

A  Herald  reporter,  by  name  of  Stanley, 
Thought  he  would  do  an  act  that  was  manly, 
And  see  for  himself  if  this  "  living  stone  " 
Had  become  a  "dead  beat"  in  the  torrid  zone — 

"  Ujiji." 

He  found  him  resting  his  weary  head 
Under  an  African  "  watershed  ;  " 
And  when  he  implored  the  man  to  go  back, 
The  answer  he  got  was  just  this  slack — 

»  Ujiji." 

There,  in  the  evening,  dusty  and  hot, 
The  old  man  sits  by  his  boiling  pot, 
And  ever  the  natives  hear  him  say, 

From  set  of  sun  till  dawn  of  day — 

"  Ujiji." 


THE  TYLER  DAVIDSON  FOUNTAIN. 

YOU  wished  me  to  tell  you,  dear  Susie, 
What  I  saw  in  the  city  to-day ; 
How  they  unveiled  the  wonderful  fountain, 

And  set  the  bright  waters  to  play. 
If  I  were  to  write  you  a  letter 

As  long  as  the  great  fountain  square, 
I  think  I  could  fill  up  another 
And  s  till  have  material  to  spare. 

I  went  to  the  square  at  eleven, 

The  seats  were  all  filled  long  before  ; 
I  stood  all  unknown  and  unknowing, 

While  the  crowd  surged  behind  and  before. 
I  was  once  in  the  arms  of  a  Teuton, 

And  once  I  reposed  on  a  Celt, 
And  once  got  a  terrible  squeezing 

From  an  arm  very  near  to  my  belt. 

I  peered  over  burly,  broad  shoulders, 

And  peeped  between  brown  heads  and  gray  ; 

Oh,  the  balm  of  a  thousand  flowers 
Would  fail  by  the  smells  of  that  day ! 


THE    TYLER    DAVIDSON    FOUNTAIN.  151 

There  was  one  burly  tub  of  old  lager 

Came  bouncing  against  me  full  tilt, 
And  I  thought  for  one  terrible  moment 

At  least  a  whole  vat  had  been  spilt. 

But  he  righted  at  once  and  stood  puffing, 

Precisely  like  one  of  those  tugs 
That  steam  into  port  at  Chicago, 

That  town  of  divorces  and  plugs. 
But  the  flags  that  we  love  were  all  flying, 

And  the  silvery  notes  of  the  band 
Sweetly  fell  on  the  air  of  October, 

That  smiled  in  its  beauty  so  bland. 
I  tried  to  get  near  to  the  speakers, 

But  never  a  word  did  I  hear — 
*T  was  a  kind  of  "  dumb  orator  "  business, 

As  good  for  the  far  as  the  near. 

I  saw  on  the  orator's  rostrum 

The  Queen  City's  strength  and  backbone, 
The  mayor  in  all  of  his  glory, 

And  the  "  truly  good"  man  on  his  throne — 
The  wealth  and  the  wisdom  together, 

The  bone  and  the  sinew  of  life  ; 
For  once  they  had  met  on  one  platform, 

Forgetting  all  party  and  strife. 


152  THE    TYLER    DAVIDSON    FOUNTAIN. 

But  soon  I  could  see  by  the  gestures 

That  the  climax  was  nearly  at  hand — 
The  ominous  hush  of  the  people, 

The  silence  that  fell  on  the  band. 
I  had  almost  forgotten  to  mention 

An  ode,  which  they  said  was  by  Cist. 
(I  'm  afraid,  when  it  goes  to  oblivion, 

Its  presence  wjll  never  be  missed.) 

Just  here,  at  the  wave  of  a  'kerchief, 

The  veil  of  the  fountain  was  rent, 
And  the  sun  with  a  halo  of  glory 

Its  charm  to  the  spectacle  lent ; 
The  water  rose  higher  and  higher, 

And  soon  from  the  outstretching  hand 
The  Genius  poured  down  like  a  blessing 

The  streams  that  shall  gladden  the  land. 

I  was  just  gushing  over  with  gladness, 

But  no  one  was  near  that  I  knew ; 
So  I  kept  all  my  thoughts  in  a  bundle 

On  purpose  to  send  them  to  you 
I  shall  never  attempt  to  describe  it, 

It 's  out  of  the  range  of  my  pen  ; 
When  you  see  it  you  '11  know  all  its  beauty, 

Do  n't  try  to  imagine  till  then. 


THE    TYLER    DAVIDSON    FOUNTAIN.  1 53 

There  's  a  regular  queen  of  a  woman, 

That  is  n't  ashamed  of  her  charms,    . 
Who  stands  on  the  top  of  the  fountain, 

With  beautiful,  broad-reaching  arms. 
There  's  another  that 's  not  over-modest, 

Just  bringing  her  boy  for  a  splash  ; 
I  do  n't  think  't  would  spoil  the  artistic 

If  he  wore  a  broad  flowing  sash. 

You  know,  dear,  that  I  've  never  traveled, 

And  do  n't  know  how  such  things  should  be  ; 
But  I  do  n't  think  the  masses  who  go  there 

Are  used  to  a  style  quite  so  free. 
There  's  a  fellow  who  sits  at  one  corner 

That  seems  in  a  terrible  way, 
With  snakes  in  his  boots,  I  imagine, 

For  his  countenance  thus  seems  to  say : 

"  Take  warning  by  me,  all  ye  topers  ; 

In  water  had  I  found  delight 
The  serpent  had  not  coiled  around  me, 

And  brought  me  to  such  a  sad  plight." 
But  I  told  you  I  could  not  describe  it, 

And  not  a  word  more  will  I  write  ; 
But  of  all  the  bright  scenes  I  have  witnessed, 

The  brightest  I  am  sure  was  that  night. 


154  THE    TYLER    DAVIDSON   FOUNTAIN. 

The  windows  were  blazing  with  candles, 

The  streets  were  alight  with  red  fire, 
And  the  Genius  loomed  up  through  the  splendor, 

Like  a  queen  on  a  funeral  pyre. 
And  I,  like  a  princess  enchanted, 

Had  quite  lost  the  use  of  my  tongue — 
You  know  that  is  something  unusual, 

Considering  the  way  it  is  hung. 

I  shall  have  to  postpone  till  next  letter 

What  I  thought  of  Janauschek's  Medea  ; 
If  my  Jason  had  acted  as  hers  did, 

I  am  sure  that  I  should  n't  be  here. 
But  my  eyelids  are  drooping  and  heavy, 

I  really  must  come  to  a  close  ; 
Good  night,  dearest  Sue,  and  God  bless  you, 

And  may  you  most  sweetly  repose. 


SADDEST  WORDS. 

ONE  of  earth's  sweetest  singers  counted  once. 
And  classed  life's  lamentable  sounds — 
Classed  and  appraised  its  "yea  and  nay," 
Its  jarring  discords  and  its  "  well-a-day  ;" 
And  out  of  all  the  bitterest  words  to  hear, 
The  words  that  strike  too  deep  to  find  a  tear 
Were  these  :  "  Loved  once." 

In  careless  days  gone  by  I  read  the  song — 
Read  it  with  idle  and  unspeculating  eyes, 
The  while  I  held  within  my  hand  a  treasure — 
One  that  I  prized  beyond  all  earthly  measure, 
Nor  knew  that  it  had  slipped  beyond  my  grasp 
Until  I  reached,  in  vain,  once  more  to  clasp 
Only  these  words  :  "  Was  once." 

Then  with  a  swift  remembrance  came  to  me 
The  words  from  those  mute  lips,  silent  so  long, 
"  Oh,  say  not  so,"  least  then,  when  life  is  shriven 
Of  those  who  sit  and  love  you  up  in  heaven, 
Whose  prayers  have  met  your  own, 
Whose  smiles  for  you  have  shown 
"  We  loved  them  once." 


156  SADDEST   WORDS. 

"  Was  once  "  the  dearest  friend.     Ah  me  ! 
Dear  friends  are  for  eternity — 
Not  for  the  years  that  change, 
But  for  the  shining  Heaven  beyond  the*range 
Of  tears  that  drop  above  unanswering  clay, 
And  cold  farewells  more  bitter  e'en  than  they, 
Coldest  of  all,  "  Was  once. 


(good-bye.) 

IT  was  sweet  to  hold  your  hands, 
Looking  in  your  earnest  eyes, 
Singing  you  my  simple  rhymes, 
List'ning  to  your  glad  replies. 

It  was  sweet  to  know  your  heart 
Answered  to  my  own  heart's  beat, 

As  our  sweetest  dreams  of  Heaven. 
Oh  my  dear  one,  this  was  sweet ! 

Sweet  to  know  you  heard  my  voice 
Knocking  at  your  sacred  door, 

At  whose  threshold  stranger  feet 
May  not  hope  to  enter  o'er. 

But  my  songs  are  finished  now, 
And  I  turn  to  quit  the  place, 

With  a  backward,  longing  look, 
Praying  for  your  tender  grace. 


158  GOOD-BYE. 

Lingers  there  one  echo  sweet — 
Trembles  one  regretful  sigh, 

With  the  clasping  of  my  hand, 
And  my  faltering,  low  good-bye  ? 


Finis. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-100m-9,'52(A3105)444 


PS 

Jordan  - 

21^2 
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Rosemary  leaves.  1 

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q^w 


